My Mind Rebels at the Future
by pretend-to-care
Summary: This is a collection of relatively random interactions between Sherlock Holmes and very ordinary things from the future...present. His future. So obviously it takes place in the now, not the then. Oh goodness, just read it.
1. Root Beer

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes or the barely-mentioned Watson. o3o However, I do own myself. *pats my head***

**A/N: The root beer thing was based on an IM chatplay with one of my friends. I mean, c'mon, Holmes and root beer were made for each other. Also the 'I' in this, unlike my other Holmes stories, is not Doctor John Watson, but me. ;) Why am I talking with Holmes? I have...no idea. Just go with it.**

* * *

"My mental faculties are collapsing in on me like a sun in the midst of its supernova death throes," Holmes said dolefully as he dropped down in an armchair.

I blinked and stared at him, looking up from my game of solitaire. "Oh…no?"

He looked at me disdainfully. "You do know what a supernova is, don't you, child?"

"Yeah," I beamed. "We learned it in science."

Holmes scoffed, shaking his head. "School. Such an infernal waste of time."

"Well…why are your mental…why supernovas?"

"The correct term is supernovae, woman. And I should think it would be obvious as to why this environment is causing my brain to rot and decay within my very skull."

"Because…because…it's full of…detritivores?"

His eyebrows raised for half a second. "Excellent show of vocabulary skills. Did you learn that word in school as well?" I nodded and he scoffed. "Then that explains why it's the wrong answer." He flung himself to his feet and began pacing back and forth. My card game was forgotten as he started to rant.

"Would you like me to tell you why my observational powers are shutting down? Of course you would, seeing how your cranium is being polluted by _school_. It is happening, quite simply, because of my lack of stimulation—in any of several forms."

"What kind of forms?" I asked, intrigued.

"The correct environment. One cannot hope to observe anything in a house so infernally _clean_!" he said. "Or the right sort of literature as to stimulate one's scientific mind. This…Harry Potter fellow clogging up your shelves is utterly unrealistic and outlandish."

"Outlandish? It takes place in England!" I pointed out.

He shot me a death glare. "And the villain. Voldemort," Holmes scoffed.

"Don't say his name!" I wailed.

"No, your collection of texts is simply horrid. In addition, the company of other powerful minds tends to boost my own. And, needless to say…." Holmes glanced at me again. "You are not the ideal intellectual company."

I made an offended noise. "Are you calling me stupid in your fancy Victorian-speak?"

"Yes."

Huffing, I stood up and threw the three of diamonds at him. "Well _you're_ stupid, Mr. School-Sucks-And-So-Do-You."

"Do you honestly believe that a playing card will cause me physical harm?" he asked in disbelief.

"Maybe I did!" I stomped out of the room.

Holmes, looking curiously down at the card, followed after me.

In the kitchen, I was rummaging through the fridge, grumbling heatedly under my breath. Standing back up with a can of root beer in hand, I closed the refrigerator doors and turned around, walking into Holmes. I let out a little shriek of surprise.

"What do you have, woman?" he inquired.

"A bomb. So move before I blow you up."

"That is clearly not an explosive device."

"Of course it isn't, because the volume of the density of its equilateral circle is all wrong, right?" I exploded.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Did you learn that in your school? Because that made absolutely no sense, my dear."

Defiantly I popped the tab and gulped down half the can at once, immediately bursting into a fit of coughing and choking.

"Good heavens, woman, calm yourself!" Holmes came over and thumped me on the back a few times. "Don't go drowning in…." He stared at the brown liquid. "…what is that?"

"Root beer," I said hoarsely.

He looked appalled. "You are most certainly not of drinking age!"

"No, Holmes," I groaned. "It's not alcoholic. It's just called root _beer_ because…well, it just is."

Sherlock Holmes regarded it curiously. "Does it always make you choke?"

"No. Only when you chug it."

"Chug?"

"…drink it all really fast."

"Ah." He stood up straight and held out his hand.

I looked at him. "What?"

"Give it to me, woman."

Indignantly I took a step back. "No! It's mine!"

"I should think that they teach sharing in school, yes?" he suggested.

"You don't believe in school," I retorted.

"But I believe in sharing."

"Well my mouth has been all over it," I pointed out.

"Hmm. Excellent point," Holmes said thoughtfully. "But I would like to try some."

"Really?" I said. "Well there's more than just this can. Let's go get you some." I led him back to the refrigerator and found another can of root beer. "Here you go."

Holmes turned it around in his hands, examining it.

I watched him. "…what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing, woman. Hush." He continued inspecting it.

Suddenly it dawned on me and I smirked. "You don't know how to open it, do you?"

"No," he said glumly.

"Like this." I did it for him. However, he had been rolling it around quite thoroughly.

It exploded.

I screamed and Holmes yelled some Victorian interjection as we were bathed in cold, tan foam. "You don't shake it!" I screeched. "Geez, Holmes!"

"You're the one who opened it!" he pointed out.

It finally quieted down and we glared at each other, dripping.

"I suppose it was an explosive," Holmes said curtly.

"It's carbonated," I retorted.

Holmes tipped the can over and the last few drops splashed out. He looked hopefully up at me. "You wouldn't have a third can, would you?"

I huffed. "Yeah. But this time, I'm not going to let you even try to open it."

Meekly Holmes followed me back to the refrigerator and carefully took the root beer once I opened it. "Don't chug it," he confirmed.

"That's right."

Gingerly Holmes brought the can to his lips and took a swig. His eyes went wide and he slammed the can down on the counter, before forcing the liquid down his throat and gasping.

I watched with my brow raised. "Uhh…."

He smacked his hands down on the counter in front of me, regarding me with a wild look in his eye characteristic only of one who had just, for the first time, tasted the biting glory of a carbonated beverage.

"Why have I never tasted this before, woman?" he inhaled.

Slightly traumatized, I asked, "You like it?"

He grinned maniacally. "I love it. It is exactly what I need to stimulate my mind." Holmes snatched the can back up and gulped down quite a bit more. Absently I sipped my own, minorly afraid but entertained.

Regaining his dignity, Holmes straightened and said, "I shall need about two dozen more."

"Two dozen?!"

"Yes. No. Three."

"That's thirty-six cans of root beer, Holmes!"

"To start with."

I slapped my palm onto my face. "I've created a monster."

Holmes was marching off. "Watson! Carbonation!"

* * *

**For the record, Watson hates root beer. He says it burns his nose and gets mad at Holmes for it like he does with so many other things. How/Why is Watson telling me this? Again, I have...no idea. Hope you enjoyed it! R&R!**


	2. Lovesac

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes or Watson. Yes indeed, Watson makes an appearance in this one.**

**A/N: These have become rather ridiculous, OOC, writer's-block-diminishing experiments, so I apologize if you hate them. Not quite sure why I'm still posting, but eh. Someone'll read 'em! **

* * *

It was just getting to the best part of the movie when Holmes skidded up in front of me, blocking the screen. The detective flung his arms in the air, eyes wide. "My gosh!"

I stared at him. "Uh…yeah?"

"Do you not see, woman?!"

"I wasn't…exactly…no. What are you talking about?"

"This pillow!" He pointed.

"Holmes, I am _not_ a pillow," I said indignantly.

"No, not you, woman. The pillow you're laying on!"

I looked around. "Oh, the lovesac."

"Move, I want a try." He grabbed my arm and yanked me up, throwing me aside and falling back in my place.

"Geez, Holmes," I grumbled. "Pushy much?"

"It's like a cloud!" he exclaimed.

"You're like a cloud."

"I could become accustomed to this," Holmes remarked.

"You better not. That's _my_ spot," I complained.

"I must show Watson!"

"Oh no," I groaned.

He attempted to sit up and failed. Making a face, he tried again, and again. "Strange."

"You need help?" I asked smugly.

Holmes shot me an 'are you serious?' look. "No, madam, I do not need help." He endeavored to get up one more time and sighed. "Yes. Help." Grabbing his forearms, I pulled him to his feet. "Merci." With that, he rushed out of the room.

Shaking my head, I looked after him and was grateful he hadn't seen my can of root beer.

No sooner had I decided it was safe to sit down when Holmes barreled back in, dragging a reluctant Watson behind him. "Watson! Feast your eyes on this!" He pointed grandly at the lovesac.

Watson gave him a look rather lacking in amusement. "Yes, Holmes, it's a large pillow, just as you described. Oh, it's even pink. Fascinating."

"No! Watson! You must feel it!" Holmes, without warning, grabbed Watson's arm and flung him down onto the oversize beanbag.

"Holm—oh." Watson paused. "…this is very nice."

"I know!" Holmes dropped down on the lovesac next to his friend, making him bounce up a little. "So puffy."

I put a hand over my mouth and giggled. Both looked up at me.

"What, you don't agree, woman?" Holmes said.

"No, no, I agree. You two are just funny."

"On the contrary, madam, we are not," Watson said.

"You're sitting together on a big pink beanbag speaking Old English. That's pretty hilarious," I replied.

"Woman, I'm shocked at you," Holmes said sternly. "How dare you insult us like this. I demand you give me your beverage as an act of apology."

"Um, no."

"Um, yes," Holmes said. "Watson must experience the beer of root."

"Holmes, I have a surgery later. I can't become intoxicated," Watson said.

"Nonsense. A little root beer never killed anyone."

"I see no need to break that tradition."

I very quietly snuck from the room with my can of soda, leaving them bickering.

Half an hour later I returned to finish the movie. Upon opening the door I had to stifle my laughter at the sight of Holmes and Watson, curled up on the lovesac and asleep.

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**SO TOOT. R&R!**


	3. Slang

**Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes or the mentioned Watson. **

**A/N: I just pulled some random slang words off the top of my head and gave them my interpreted definition. Don't expect it to be perfect--I'm certainly not gangsta. But Holmes using words like LOL? C'mon, that's just golden.**

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I hadn't slept in two days. I'd been up for forty-eight hours, reading and writing fanfictions, and it was my first opportunity to catch a few winks. Warily I looked around, and there was no one in sight, so gratefully I laid my head on a throw pillow, stretching out on the couch, and began to doze off, when suddenly—

"Do you know what I absolutely fail to understand?"

I groaned. "Holmes, go away."

"No." He yanked the pillow from beneath my head and hit me in the face with it. "Wake up. A child like you needs no more than four or five hours of sleep a week. Don't be lazy."

"This is why you will never have children," I muttered. "You slave driver."

"I need your unmatched skills of inborn adolescent understanding and perspective of the world."

"…I think you just called me stupid in Victorian again."

"Let us not bother with trifles." He sat down on my legs.

"Holmes, get off!"

"I require your help, woman."

"Then quit cutting off the circulation in my legs!"

He stood up and I quickly scooted into a sitting position. "Is that good enough?"

"Yes."

"Good. Help me."

"Okay. What do you need help with?"

"The English language."

I smacked my hand onto my face. "Holmes…I may be mistaken, but I believe you're speaking English right now."

"No, not _that_ English."

"…well what other English is there?"

"The English employed by males and females approximately ages ten to twenty-seven."

I stared at him for a moment. "Oh…slang."

"Yes."

"Well why couldn't you just say that in the first place?" I shook my head. "Never mind. What words do you need help with?"

He reached into a pocket and started rummaging around. Before finding whatever it was he was looking for, he discarded a nearly toothless comb, two paintbrushes, a shot glass, and a dead bee. "Aha!" Triumphantly he handed me a piece of paper.

"You made a list," I observed. "Oh…dear. This is—Holmes…what is this?" Slowly I pulled my hand back, fingers covered in a sticky brown substance that had been on the paper.

He grabbed my hand and stuck it in his mouth. "Coffee."

"Ew, Holmes spit!" I wiped my hand off on his sleeve. "Whatever. Let's see this list." I unfolded the paper, avoiding the coffee, and laid it on the couch between us. "Okay, first off…shnazzle." Holmes nodded quickly. "Well, to tell you the truth…I don't think anyone knows what that means," I said. "Next one. Snap. As in oh snap?"

"Yes."

"That one's just a way of saying…oh no. Oh dear. Oh no you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"That's not important. Next one…shorty." I sighed. "This could get unpleasant. Uhh…a shorty is…a woman. And we'll leave it at that."

Holmes's face acquired an expression of deeper understanding. "Oh. Snap."

I giggled. "Yeah. Now the next one is…Holmes…I can't say that word."

He raised his eyebrows. "You can't say—"

"No I can't! So don't say it. Nobody should say that word," I scolded. "Where did you even hear that?"

"Watson."

"…Watson's using slang now too?"

"It would appear so."

I groaned.

"Oh snap?"

"Yeah. Oh snap. Okay now, LOL. That one's easy."

"How is it easy? What in the world could 'lawl' possibly mean?"

"No, Holmes, it's not a word. It's an acronym."

"Children are using acronyms now?"

"Yeah. At least phone-obsessed teens are. It means 'laugh out loud'."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because something's funny."

"I see no humor in this situation."

"Oh, just…go on to the next one. Spaz. That means to freak out. To go crazy. Next one. LOTR…Holmes, that's not slang."

"But it's an acronym."

"Yeah, but it stands for Lord of the Rings."

He scoffed. "Preposterous. There is no lord of rings."

"Well in Middle Earth there is," I defended.

"There is no Middle Earth."

"In J.R.R. Tolkien's mind there is!"

"Now, now, woman. No need to spaz."

My hand met my face again. "Okay, new rule. You can't use slang once I explain it to you."

"Why not?"

"Because twenty-first-century words do not need to be coming out of a nineteenth-century mouth!"

He sighed. "Fine. Just explain one more to me and then I will be on my way."

"Okay."

"What does ILY mean?"

"I love you."

He looked taken aback. "Woman! I too feel a certain kinship with you has grown due to our modern-day adventures, but you are moving too fast!"

"No! Holmes, you dork! That's what ILY means, it means 'I love you'!"

"…oh."

I huffed. "I think _you're_ the spaz here, not me."

"…so you don't love me? Why not?"

"…we are not having this conversation."

"Because you don't have an answer, do you."

I stuck my fingers in my ears. "I'm not listening."

"Woman."

"Lalalalala!"

"Shorty."

"Lala—hey!" I hit his chest. "What did I say about using slang?"

"Not to."

"Especially to me!"

He patted my head with a sympathetic look. "You poor little spaz."

* * *

**I am a spaz. R&R!**


	4. Mr Stark

**Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes or, in this installment, Tony Stark. *wink***

**A/N: The idea for a modernized Holmes was inspired by dear Ginger Locks' "A Driving Lesson". **

**Although there is an INTENSE SEQUENCE OF CLINGING AND EXTREME RDJ SEXINESS, there is no romance in this installment. These are simply the typical actions of any sane Holmes fangirl (how's that for an oxymoron?), myself included. **

**C'mon, like all y'all couldn't see yourselves doing this. **

* * *

"Holmes?" I called. "Hooolmes…where did you go, you lunatic?"

As I passed the bathroom door, it swung open and a man much like the one every girl dreams of at least once in their life stepped out.

His baggy, constantly off-white shirt had been replaced with one that was sleek and black, crisply collared and buttoned just enough that the white muscle shirt underneath was still visible. The suspender-topped trousers were gone and instead he sported the kind of jeans that guys with Ferraris wear. Black and white skate style shoes that looked much too nice to wear anywhere took the place of his boots. Even his hair was gelled into loveliness. I could practically hear angelic music as he took off his shades.

"Hello, love," he said.

I stared, feeling a nosebleed coming on. "…_Holmes_?"

"Who else would I be, woman?"

It was Holmes. "You…you look…."

"Modern," he supplied.

"Okay, let's…let's go with that," I squeaked.

He messed with his rolled-up sleeves, making a face. "All of this is such a nuisance. These pants are abominable. And all of this…goo in my hair is absolutely—"

"Beautiful!" I interjected. "You look like—oh my gosh, you look like Tony Stark!"

"Like who?"

"Can I hug you? Please?"

"No. Why would I allow you, just because I have changed clothing?"

I paused. "Wait, Holmes…who did all this?"

"I did."

"…how?"

"I spent the day reading those." He pointed to a stack of fashiony, gossipy magazines in the corner.

I decided I didn't want to know where he got those—because they certainly weren't mine—and I _really_ didn't want to know where he got the clothes.

"Hey Holmes, look! A criminal!" I pointed in a random direction.

"Where?" He looked over and I flung my arms around his waist. "Good heavens, woman!" he exclaimed. "Unhand me!"

"Nnooo."

"I want you off _now_!"

"I don't want to."

"Would you like me to break your arms?"

"Okay."

Holmes huffed. "Woman. This is sexual harassment."

I ignored him. "You're so clean!"

"And it's disgusting. I loathe soap."

"You smell nom."

"_What_ is nom?"

"Holmes is nom."

"I have never been nom in my life."

"Well you're nom now."

"How do I become un-nom?"

"You can't."

"Woman!"

"Alright." I sighed and let him go. "There. You're free. Go. Fly. And change. You're not Tony Stark, you're Holmes."

Slowly he raised a brow. "How do you know?" he asked, completely dropping his accent.

I stared, bug-eyed. He smirked and walked away.

* * *

**And with that, your brains have exploded. **

**How's that for a paradox? Was it really Tony unveiling a hidden talent for British accents, or was Holmes just being his clever self? REVIEW and tell me what you think. ;3**

**I apologize for the shortness, as well as the lengthy wait for an update. Been having some writer's block lately. **

**Disclaimer #2: I have no fashion sense whatsoever, so if Holmes's modern clothing is as bad as polkadots, checks, and stripes...blame the economy. **


	5. Snuggie

**Disclaimer: I do not own Holmes or the twice-mentioned Watson...nor the Snuggie...nor Edgar Allen Poe and his work. I'd be quite frightened if the latter was mine, truthfully. **

**A/N: The idea for Snuggies was provided by my dear beta reader, disoriented-problem. Obviously, it's brilliant. And as you read this update, the idea may come into your mind that Mr. Holmes and I are developing a relationship. This is a negatory. Although Holmes is indeed sexy...in a Victorian-era-esque way...I myself prefer Mr. Stark. *winks* On with the show! **

* * *

"Woman."

I peeked over the top of my book at Holmes. "Okay. You know what? The first few times were cute, but it's about time you quit calling me 'woman'. I have a name, you know. It's a nice name too."

"I don't care for your name," he said haughtily. "You are a woman and so that is what I shall call you."

"You know, for a genius, you're an idiot."

"That is impossible. Now. Woman." I stuck out my tongue. "You have no idea how unseemly that is," Holmes said disdainfully. I opened my mouth and he clapped his hand over it. "No. Shush and let me speak. I've had enough of your unintelligent comments. I simply would like to know what it is you're wearing."

I licked his palm. He sharply jerked his hand back, and I sharply jerked my mouth back.

"How horrid!" he exclaimed.

"You taste like dirt!" I whined.

"Saliva is not a weapon!" Holmes scolded.

"It's a Snuggie, Holmes."

"What? No. It was saliva."

"No, not that. This." I pulled at the flannel garment covering my front.

"Snuggie?" he repeated. I nodded, and he frowned. "That isn't a word."

"It is now."

"You're making it up, woman."

"No, I'm not," I snorted. "It really is a Snuggie."

Holmes shook his head. "Well what does it do?"

"Look." I stood up and shrugged it off.

"You have it on backwards," he informed me.

I gave him a look. "No, I don't. You're supposed to wear it like this."

"But your backside is unclothed!"

"My backside is perfectly clothed, thank you very much," I said. "But you're supposed to wear it in front like this. It's a blanket with sleeves."

"Preposterous! Blankets don't have sleeves! It's a glorified house jacket, and a poor one at that. Doesn't even cover your flip side," Holmes muttered.

"It's not supposed to," I insisted.

"Then just what is this Snuggie supposed to do?"

"It's a blanket!" I repeated. "Only it has sleeves so you can use your arms without being cold!"

"Anyone who cannot take that much cold is a pansy," Holmes said sullenly.

"Your mom," I grumbled.

"My mother would never have used such a ridiculous device," he replied. "In fact, I think it's best if I take it off your hands."

Suspiciously, I watched him gather up the Snuggie and march off. "Hmmm."

Later that day, I entered the living room to find Holmes curled up in the Snuggie, reading.

"You have it on backwards," I murmured as I walked past him.

He jumped. "Good heavens, woman! Don't do that!"

"Don't do what, talk to you? C'mon, Holmes, you know you'd never survive a day without me providing the other end of the conversation."

He 'hmphed' at me. "Incidentally, I do not have it on backwards. I have it on like you showed me."

"Earlier you said that was backwards."

Holmes held his book up in front of his face. "It appears I was…mistaken."

I grinned. "What are you reading?"

"Edgar Allen Poe."

"Oo, scary."

"Precisely why I jumped when you assaulted me."

"I didn't assault you, I said hi!"

"Well don't say hi when I'm reading about murder." I stuck my tongue out again and without looking at me, he said, "Unseemly, my dear."

Grumbling, I sat next to him on the couch. "Can I read too?"

"Only if you are in a Snuggie."

"But I only have one! Let's share."

"No, I don't think—good heavens, woman!" Holmes had a minor seizure as I attempted climbing into his lap. "You are most definitely not a cat, nor any other small animal pleasant to have on one's thighs!"

"That sounded really weird when you said it."

"Get off me!" He pushed me to the far end of the couch.

"But I wanna read," I pouted. Holmes ignored me.

Quietly, I sniffled. I whimpered. I put forth every manner of tiny sad noises, until finally he sighed and looked over. "What do you propose we do, woman?"

I beamed.

Two minutes later, the Snuggie had replaced me on the far end of the couch, and Holmes and I were sharing a good old-fashioned blanket, consumed by the narrator's growing madness in 'The Tell-Tale Heart'. "_Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump..._" the heart was going.

Watson ambled quietly up and picked up the Snuggie. "What is this?"

Much terrified shouting and screaming ensued.

* * *

**Ah yes, nothing like reading tales of insanity and revenge with Sherlock Holmes, with him deconstructing the mental faculties of each main character at every page. **

**Reviews are love! Hope you enjoyed! **


	6. Fanfics

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes (sadly) doesn't belong to me, nor do Guy Ritchie, Robert Downey Jr., and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Neither does this website. I just live here during the summer. **

**A/N: The idea for Holmes discovering fanfics of himself was collaborated by myself and Ginger Locks. Mostly myself, but Ginger seconded the motion, if I recall correctly. If not, Ginger, you can hit me with a spoon. **

* * *

"Hey Holmes, where's my calculator?" I asked, wandering into the room. "I need to do my math homework and I—why are you on the computer?"

The detective was sitting there in the textbook computer chair position: hand on the mouse losing circulation, body slumped forward, eyes wide and glazed over, mouth slightly open with drool dripping onto the spacebar….

"Holmes, get your spit off my keyboard," I scolded. "What are you doing? How are you even working this thing?"

"I have observed you," he said vacantly, scrolling down. "You live on this device."

"I do not," I said, blatantly in denial. "What are you looking at?"

"My life…I think…."

I raised a brow. "Wut?"

"This website…fanfiction...and the people on it…they…they seem to…to _know_ me…but I am quite certain I have never met a single one of them, nor done any of these things…."

He sounded so concerned that I felt bad and hugged him. He didn't even struggle. "How long have you been on here?" I wondered.

"I'm not sure…."

It was nearly midnight. "Too long, most likely. C'mon. Let's get you off of here," I said.

"No…I must learn more about these authors…" he said lethargically.

"No you don't."

"Yes…I must. They are a threat to my safety…they could be watching me at this moment."

"They are," I mumbled guiltily.

He finally looked away from the screen and at me. "What?"

"I'm one of them," I said sheepishly.

"Woman…_you_ have been watching me?"

"Well you _are_ living at my house."

"Which…which one are you?"

I pointed at one of the fanfictions listed. "I wrote that one. And…that one. …and that one. And a lot more."

He squinted at the screen. "…pretend-to-care? That is you?" I nodded. "Oh." Holmes buried his face in his hands, shoving them back through his unruly hair. "I'm so confused."

I stroked his head. "Would you like me to explain?"

"Please."

"Well…there's this actor named Robert Downey Junior…and a movie director named Guy Ritchie…."

"What's a movie?"

"…nothing. There was actually…a man named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle…who wrote a bunch of books…about…you and Watson…."

"He was watching us as well?" Holmes exclaimed, looking up at me with terror-filled eyes. "How long has this been going on?"

My head was beginning to ache. Holmes was a character in a book, created by Mr. Doyle, surviving the centuries to be played by Robert Downey Jr. in a movie, yet somehow ending up in my computer chair puzzling over fanfictions about himself. I suddenly felt very mentally unstable and reached out, poking his face.

"Woman, what was that for?"

"I…I'm just trying to make sure you're not a hallucination…."

He blinked. "…I don't think I am…does a hallucination know that it is a hallucination?"

"I don't know…I've never been one."

"Are you sure about that?"

I whimpered. "No."

It was quiet for a minute or two, both of us staring at the computer like it had just grown several pairs of long, hairy legs. I was thinking harder than I ever had before.

"Holmes?"

"Yes, woman?"

"I'm going to explain this the best I can."

"Okay."

"These fanfictions are based off a movie. Which was based off of some stories. Which were written about you. And that's it."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"So no one is watching Watson and I?"

My mind went to my Sherlock Holmes DVD, framed in my room and hung on the wall. "No, of course not," I said with the sweetest smile I could manage. "No one but me."

"Ah, yes. That has got to stop."

"What?!"

"You. Watching me. No more of it," he said briskly.

I pointed in the direction of the door. "Then leave."

"What?"

"Leave. Go. Out of my house."

"Woman, you have no authority to do such a thing."

"Yes I do. If you don't want me watching you, then you can leave, because I'm not walking around blindfolded," I snapped.

Holmes heaved a sigh, as though generously giving to one far below him in status. "Fine. I will stay, since you obviously cannot function without me."

I rolled my eyes. "You're right. I'm completely lost without you."

"I knew it."

"Whatever would I do without the insane mad scientist mind of a child trapped inside the dirt-encrusted body of a middle-aged Victorian man?"

"Woman, you should stop talking now."

I reached over and turned off the computer.

"I hadn't finished reading that!"

"Well you're finished now."

Holmes frowned. "I was reading one of yours. It was very good. I like yours the best."

"Lies."

"Woman." He took my hand in both of his, looking earnestly up. "Sherlock Holmes never lies."

I sighed. "Okay, fine. You can read for a little longer."

He beamed. "Thank you, woman." Holmes looked eagerly around. "Now how do you turn this machine on?"

* * *

**This installment required quite a bit of thought on my part. How do you tell the very solid man sitting in your computer chair that he doesn't exist except in the minds of thousands of fangirls and mystery junkies? How do you tell _yourself_? I hope I gave a plausible (if noticeably sidelong and obscure) explanation. **


	7. Megaphone, Dashboards, Toilet

**Disclaimer: I think it's time I let you all know I don't own Sherlock, or John. I know, I know. It comes as a shock. **

**A/N: So this started out as the idea for a megaphone, from disoriented-problem. But then it took a turn for cars--more specifically, the little buttons on the dashboard. And then after that it headed for the toilet, literally! So I am proud to present a three-in-one special update! Enjoy! **

* * *

I knew something was wrong when a bird slammed into my window…followed by a second…and a third. And a fourth. Confused, I went and opened the window just in time for the fifth to streak past me and tumble across the floor.

"What the…." I trailed off as I heard a loud noise from the front yard. Fearing the worst, I headed outside.

Naturally, Holmes was out there, his back to me. I could only guess what he had in front of his face, although guessing wasn't necessary as I approached him and said, "Hey! Holmes!"

He whirled around and, with the megaphone he was holding to his lips, yelled in my face, "YES, WOMAN?"

"Gah!" I threw my hands over my ears. "Holmes! Where in the world did you get that?"

"I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND YOU'RE INTERRUPTING MY EXPERIMENT."

"What experiment, how many sparrows it takes to break a window?"

"ARE YOU TALKING? I CAN'T HEAR YOU, WOMAN."

"Turn it off, Holmes!"

"WHAT?"

"Turn it off!"

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU."

"TURN IT OFF!"

"OH." He paused for a second. "I DON'T KNOW HOW."

"Don't lie, Holmes."

"DON'T WHAT?"

"DON'T LIE! I KNOW YOU KNOW HOW TO TURN IT OFF BECAUSE YOU TURNED IT ON!"

"NO I DIDN'T."

"THEN WHO DID?"

"…A LITTLE BIRD."

"THERE ARE NO LITTLE BIRDS, YOU RAMMED THEM ALL INTO MY WINDOW."

Holmes huffed, the sound magnified by the megaphone. "FINE." He pushed a button and immediately a deafening siren filled the air.

"AHH! HOLMES!"

"SORRY."

"I'M SURE YOU ARE!" I reached out and hit the button. "Geez, Holmes! And here I thought you couldn't possibly be louder!"

"This is a most intriguing device," Holmes remarked. "What did you say it was called?"

"It's a megaphone," I said. "You use it to talk over a crowd."

"Or an obnoxious woman."

"I'm going to the store today," I said, unfazed.

"Would you get some root beer, you kind and beautiful and non-obnoxious soul?"

"Of course I will, Holmes," I said sweetly.

"You're an angel."

"Yes, I know. Just stop tormenting the birds." With that, I went back inside.

However, I should've known that Holmes wouldn't be finished with such a contraption after only one scolding.

As I left for the grocery store later that afternoon, I had just turned out of the driveway when suddenly—

"CAN I SIT IN THE FRONT?"

I screamed and almost flattened my mailbox. "Holmes! What the heck are you _doing_?"

He popped up in the backseat, holding the megaphone. "I'M COMING TO THE STORE WITH YOU."

I grumbled my displeasure, but decided it was smarter to take him than leave him to his own devices at home. "Fine," I muttered. "Get up here."

He wormed, squirmed, and wiggled his way into the front seat, where I promptly turned the megaphone off. "I don't want you shouting in my ear, okay?"

"Okay."

I was less than convinced.

On the way there, Holmes insisted opening the window and sticking his head out like a dog. It provided him with a distraction from the radio buttons, so I gladly obliged. Once we reached the store, I decided I'd rather risk him ceaselessly beeping the horn than receiving endless odd looks from people, so I took my keys, leaving the radio and air conditioning on just in case, and told him to stay in the car.

A few minutes later, I had gotten all my needed groceries, including root beer, and was returning to the car. There was no need to remember where I had parked, as I could hear Holmes's amplified voice from the door. Heaving a sigh, I followed the yelling until I caught sight of him, hanging halfway out the window and screaming at seagulls. His eyes locked on mine, he quit shouting, and he promptly disappeared inside the car.

I shook my head, wishfully hoping no one had noticed. Shifting the weight of my couple shopping bags, I pulled on the door…which didn't open. Holmes had the most innocent look in his big brown eyes as I pulled on every single one of the five doors, only to find them all locked.

"Holmes. Open the door."

He shook his head.

My eyebrows went up. "Holmes, unlock the car, come on."

The sleuth mouthed 'no'.

I growled and set the groceries down, hunting through my pockets for the keys. "How did you even close the window? It's automatic."

Triumphantly, I found the keys and unlocked the door, but before I could pull it open, he pushed the little button down and locked it again.

"Sherlock Holmes, you did not just lock that door," I said dangerously. He nodded. "You know that the longer you make me wait the more trouble you'll be in." Holmes shrugged. "What are you going to do when I finally get in the car, huh?" He pouted. "No, the puppy-dog face isn't going to work this time. I'm tired and grumpy, Holmes, I'm not in the mood for games, although evidently you are."

Holmes was no longer listening, playing with the air conditioning instead. It blasted in his face and he squinted, wrinkling his nose and turning it off. He'd also rediscovered the radio buttons. He searched around until he found a song he liked, then turned it up as loud as possible.

"Holmes! Hey! HOLMES!" He blatantly ignored me.

Snarling, I tried to unlock the door again. Without even looking at me, he pushed the button down. Heaving a very frustrated sigh, I dropped the shopping bags and pulled something out. I hammered on the window until he looked up, and his eyes widened.

I nodded smugly. "Yeah, Holmes. A four-liter bottle of root beer, all for you. Just open the door."

His thought process was almost visible as he looked from the lock to the root beer to me and back indecisively. Slowly he reached over and pushed the button. I wasted no time in yanking open the door and thrusting the bottle in his hands. Wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible, I tossed in the groceries and hopped in the car, and we burned rubber backwards.

"Hahh," Holmes said excitedly, twisting off the cap and tipping the bottle almost straight up.

"I think you have an unhealthy addiction," I muttered, casually reaching over and taking the megaphone from his lap.

Late that night, I was finally able to fall limply into bed, the megaphone stashed in my nightstand without Holmes's knowledge. My mental faculties shut off the moment the lights did, and I almost reached one perfect hour of sleep.

And then the wonderful sleuth found the missing bullhorn.

"WOMAN, I CAN'T SLEEP. I DRANK TOO MUCH ROOT BEER AND I HAVE TO PEE."

I groaned loudly. "The bathroom is across the hall, Holmes."

"BUT I NEED YOU TO COME WITH ME."

"_Why_?"

"BECAUSE THERE ARE MONSTERS IN THE LOO. AND I MIGHT FALL INTO THE LITTLE HOLE."

"Make Watson go."

"I CAN'T. HE LOCKED HIS DOOR AND I THINK HE'S WEARING EARPLUGS."

"Dang it, Watson, you're brilliant."

"I REALLY NEED TO GO."

"No, Holmes, I'm tired."

"IF YOU DON'T COME MY BLADDER MIGHT EXPLODE."

"Serves you right. No one should drink that much root beer in one day."

"I THINK I'M GOING TO GO RIGHT HERE."

"NO, Holmes, okay, okay! I'm coming!"

He smiled. "THANK YOU, WOMAN."

* * *

**I feel like a jerk in this one, but hey. You can only live with Holmes for so long before you hit a low. ;3 I hope the surplus of capital letters didn't annoy you too much either, but the dear boy does love to shout and we must keep him in character. R&R!**


	8. Guest Appearances

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson don't belong to me. Neither does our surprise guest at the end. Neither does 'that's what she said'. Neither do any of the lovely people involved in this fic. Neither does the teapot. **

**A/N: I'm not very fond of this, simply because writing several characters in a situation is extremely hard for me...especially because I really know none of you people. But I tried my best and I've gotten a bit of positive feedback already, not to mention the fact that everyone involved here is practically dreaming about this, so here it is. I really, really hope you find it to your liking, and if not, feel free to lock me in a box. As for those who aren't involved, I hope you enjoy it anyway, and if not, there will be more updates soon that are a bit more...orthodox. **

**Now I know there are many people who read this story. But what I did was PM those who had reviewed it asking if they'd like to guest appear in this installment. Most replied by the deadline, and so here they are. And before you all go rushing off to review, if I ever do anything like this again, it will be in a long, long time and most likely by a different method. I don't want bribes, thank you very much. **

**And with that novel of an author's note, enjoy! Hopefully. **

* * *

"No, woman, your spoon goes on the other side of your plate," Holmes scolded.

I huffed. "Holmes, this is America. We don't care where spoons go."

"Well, Miss America, this is tea. And at tea, the placement of your spoon is crucial," he said snobbishly.

"Holmes, I have never been and never will be Miss America." I took a sip from my teacup, halfway wondering if Holmes had stolen it from Watson, when the liquid touched my tongue. I spat it across the table.

"Woman!" Holmes exclaimed. "That was _very_ rude!"

"What _is_ this, Holmes?"

"Nothing unusual, I simply boiled root beer."

I sighed. "Holmes, you don't _boil_ root beer."

"It fit in the teapot and rose in temperature and therefore I can boil it if I wish."

"I don't even own a teapot—"

Before I could finish, the doorbell rang, and rang again, and again, and again, and Holmes threw his arms over his head and cringed as it continued ringing.

"That sound, what is it? Where is it coming from?" he said apprehensively.

"It's just the doorbell, Holmes," I said, gladly leaving the table to see who it was. Holmes followed curiously, still cringing at every ding-dong.

I opened the door to find a large amount of random strangers, all female, on my front step.

"Uhh…hi?" I said uncertainly. "Who, um…are all of you people and why are you trying to break my doorbell?"

One of them was in fact still ringing it, looking far too happy. I gave her a look and she stopped, looking sheepish, and backed away with an Australian-accented 'sorry'.

Not quite sure what to do or say, I simply stared and the rest of them stared back. There were at least three redheads, a girl with a fedora, and a short one periodically emitting little squeaks of excitement. Five more completed the group, one clutching a thick book, one giving me compassionate looks, one with a bit of a confused expression, a fourth seeming bored, and lastly the Aussie doorbell ringer.

Finally I spoke. "Can…can I help you?"

One of the redheads stepped forward. "Don't you recognize us, pretend-to-care?"

I stared at them, scrutinizing, wracking my brain….

"Nope." My lips popped on the P. "Except for you," I said, pointing at the confused one. "You're disoriented-problem. I know you." She waved.

"Well I'm Ginger Locks," announced the redhead.

I gasped. "Oh! Then the rest of you must be—"

"PhantomProducer," said the compassionate one.

"GlassAngel," meeped the squeaker.

"Lady Sally," piped up a medievally-dressed redhead.

"Emma Gitali," the third of that hair color added.

I picked up from there. "And Curreeus, and Pale Treasures, and Queen Irene Holmes, and indianajonesmarion—"

Holmes had been standing quietly behind me as long as he possibly could, but finally it became too much for him and he peeked up over my shoulder. A collective gasp went up from the people on the doorstep. "Woman, who are these women?" Holmes asked.

At that moment, my guests decided to forcefully invite themselves in. I got pushed to the side, leaving Holmes unprotected. The bunch of fangirls surrounded him, gaping. "It's really Holmes!" someone said, followed by a GlassAngel squeal.

Holmes shot me an uneasy glance. "Woman…what is going on?"

I sighed, deciding it would be better to let things play out. Holmes might even gain a few more social skills. So I replied, "Just fans, Holmes. They might touch you obsessively, but they won't hurt you."

"But I don't like to be touched," Holmes objected.

I gave him an encouraging, albeit pitying, smile. "Have at him, girls."

He was engulfed in a big group hug, looking traumatized as fangirls handled his trenchcoat, stroked his hair, poked his face, and went through his pockets.

"Ah…misses…madams…I'm not sure—hey! Leave that there, I—no, don't eat it, it's poisonous! I never…dear child, stop screeching in my ear! I have quite delicate hearing! What? No you may not have my left shoe, I need it! Gah! For the love of Victoria Regina, _get off my back_!"

I watched Holmes's struggle with a mixture of sympathy and amusement. Just as I was about to intervene and save the poor boy, someone else did it for me.

"What on earth is going on?" Watson shouted, striding nobly into the room.

There were several screams and a cry of "Watson too?" A moment later the doctor was pounced on by disoriented-problem and GlassAngel, both of which immediately began petting his moustache.

"Holmes!" he yelled frantically. "What the bloody—_Holmes_!"

"Don't fret, Watson!" Holmes called. "I've found it's much more bearable if you hold still and don't excite them in any way!"

"Well that's easy for you to say!" Watson yelped, being dragged across the floor by disoriented-problem. "They aren't grabbing your face!"

As he said that, indianajonesmarion4eva seized Holmes's nose and adamantly refused to let go.

"Okay, enough is enough," I said loudly. "Let's release the Victorian men and—hey! No! Leave Watson's moustache _on_ his face!" I sighed. "Ookay. This is not working."

"HEY!"

The room fell silent and all eyes went to Holmes. "The woman said to restrain yourselves," he said stonily. Someone let out a dreamy sigh at his sudden seriousness and both he and Watson were released.

I smiled, still learning about him every day. It may have been the first time I'd seen him even remotely stern. "Okay. Everybody needs to take a few deep breaths and relax."

"I agree," spoke up Emma.

Ginger and Sally nodded. "You're right," the latter said.

"How about we not terrorize Holmes and Watson and just have some nice conversations with them?" I suggested. "Learn everything you possibly can about them like the over-obsessed fanfiction readers and writers you are!"

"I'm not _that_ obsessed," Queen rebutted.

"Perhaps not obsessed," Holmes said, straightening his collar, "but every one of you certainly finds me attractive."

"Not me!" Pale Treasures said quickly. "No. Not attractive."

Holmes looked at her, raising a brow. She bit her lip. "Woman, you don't find me pleasing to the eye?"

Pale said 'no' at the same time I said 'yes'.

Holmes looked at me curiously and I quickly defended myself. "You call me woman so much that I'm used to it, sorry!"

The sleuth shook his head and resumed staring Pale Treasures down. "I will have you know, my dear, that my face is incredibly symmetrical, my eyes are profound, and my lips are proportionally perfect. Secondly, you are a horrid liar. What's more, you attempted to kiss me…you and two or three others. Therefore, I deduce that you do indeed find me very attractive, but don't worry. I will refrain from blowing it out of proportion."

"It's a little late for that," Watson muttered as most of the room burst into applause for the detective's deduction.

PhantomProducer stepped over to me as most of the room gathered around Holmes and Watson. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?" I replied.

"Put up with them."

"Well Watson is usually in the basement—he set up his practice there," I explained. "So usually it's just Holmes, but…I think that's bad enough."

She chuckled. "Obviously. But if you need anything, I'd be glad to help you keep a hold on your sanity."

"That would be great," I said. "When Holmes gets his mouth going—"

"That's what she said," Phantom interjected quickly.

"—you have no idea how—whoah. No." I shook my head. "I have no intention of letting Holmes's mouth anywhere near mine."

Holmes was suddenly inches away. "Come now, woman, don't lie to yourself," he smiled.

Phantom grinned and I glared at him. "Your attitude is rapidly increasing in size, and so is your head."

"But it's still attractive," he answered in a sing-song voice, returning to his crowd of women.

"See what I mean?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, I see what you mean," Phantom smirked. "Now if you'll excuse me, I can't leave without touching Watson's moustache once." She went over to the doctor.

Heaving a sigh, I followed.

"Then, as the enemy battalion drew slowly closer, nearly silent and invisible in the dark," Watson was saying to an enthralled audience, "I drew my sword and began creeping backwards. I reached the wall and could go no further."

"Then what happened?" somebody breathed.

"It was a long and bloody night," Watson said gravely. "But as morning broke, my troops and I proved victorious." He smiled modestly at his own round of applause.

"Yay for Watson," I said, patting his arm. "Tell the one about the tiger."

"Oo, there was a tiger?"

Watson nodded. "Yes indeed."

Having heard it before, I joined the group near Holmes. It currently consisted of Emma, indiana, Sally, Queen, and disoriented.

"And I would love to draw you sometime," Emma was saying. Speaking calmly, she seemed to be one of the more sensible ones here.

"So would I," indiana said, excited beneath the fedora.

"Me too," disoriented agreed. "I can never get your mouth right."

"That's what she said!" Phantom called from across the room.

"What is she talking about?" Holmes murmured to me.

"Nothing," I grumbled. "Nothing at all." The very last thing I wanted was Holmes cracking 'that's what she said' jokes.

"I design costumes," Sally said, changing the subject, much to my relief. "I'd really like to study yours, if you don't mind."

"Of course not," Holmes smiled.

"May I hear about your cases sometime?" Queen asked. "I love your work."

"Why not?" beamed the sleuth.

The clock began chiming nine-thirty at night and Watson spoke. "This has been lovely, girls, but I'm afraid I must go. I have a surgery scheduled in ten minutes."

"Ah, always early, our Watson," Holmes said fondly. "But I must agree. Surely it is past some of your bedtimes." Everyone protested. "Oh, come now, none of that," Holmes scolded. "You may all come and visit soon, of course."

"Wait, what?" I said sharply. "Holmes, this isn't your house."

"I live here, don't I?" he replied. "Yes, you must all come for tea this Thursday."

I sighed. "Alright, fine. Tea this Thursday, at…well…teatime. Just be sure not to drink anything…trust me."

"We'll be here," Emma Gitali smiled, waving a farewell to Holmes.

"Thank you for having us," Lady Sally said.

"Oh, no problem," I sighed, smiling tiredly.

"Bye," Pale Treasures said, accompanying Queen Irene Holmes and the others towards the door.

"Do I hear feminine voices?"

Every head turned and every set of eyes widened as Tony Stark himself sauntered into the room.

"Tony!" I yelped. "You're not supposed to be here right now!"

"_Tony Stark_?" indianajonesmarion4eva said, stunned. "You have Tony Stark here too?"

"No!" I said quickly, trying to push him out of the room. "No, this, uh…this isn't the real Tony, this is…someone…like him."

"Don't be silly, babe, there's no one like me." He glanced the room over once and grinned. "Hey y'all."

Ginger Locks let out a small scream—like Holmes, having restrained herself for as long as possible. In the blink of an eye she was across the room, flinging her arms around Tony's neck and kissing him full on the mouth.

"Whoah! No! Hey!" I snarled. "Off! Off of Tony now!" I whirled around, pointing at everyone else. "And you can all stay right where you are!" Turning back to the problem at hand, I began throwing a small tantrum. "Ginger Locks, quit kissing Tony! This is not—Tony Stark, stop kissing her back! This is so not cool! Knock it off!"

With his innate level head, Watson began ushering people out. "There isn't much to see here, darlings, just kindly exit the room. That's right, this way, excellent job!" He marched the majority of the fangirls out and looked minorly relieved once they were all gone. "Well, that was—"

He was cut short by a pair of giggles. Looking down, he found GlassAngel and Curreeus clinging to his legs.

"No, none of that, dears," the doctor sighed. "Out, out. You can visit again later, but I must go prepare my scalpel. That's right, good girls. Wonderful to meet you!"

The doctor closed the door and approached Holmes, who was watching the developing catfight between myself and Ginger Locks. "This is quite entertaining," Holmes grinned.

"Tony's mine!"

"You already have Holmes and Watson!"

"So what?"

"Alright, alright, relax," Tony chuckled. "There's no need for violence, that's my department."

"Stay out of this, Stark!" I snapped.

"You know, I think that's just what I'll do," he said. "Do those other chicks have a ride home?"

"How should I know?"

"Works for me." Tony offered his arm to Ginger and the pair ducked out the door, Ginger throwing me a triumphant smirk. The sound of another fangirl mob just reached us before Watson shut the front door behind them.

"I really must prepare for my surgery," he said, hurrying from the room.

"Are you alright, woman?" Holmes asked, leaning against the wall beside me.

"No," I whimpered. "I'm tired and hoarse and can't come up with a decent plot to get Tony back."

"Oh, you don't need him," Holmes scoffed. "You have me!" He beamed.

I slowly looked over. "…no, I need Tony."

"You are mistaken, woman." Holmes took my hand and led me towards the dining room. "What you _really_ need is some tea."

I groaned. "Ohh, not the tea."

"Yes, woman, the tea."

* * *

**I must ask you not to go boil root beer, because I have absolutely no idea what would happen and I wouldn't want to be sued. I apologize for the different amounts of face time among you lovely children who guest-starred, but I was pretty content to let the story go where it wanted to. I hope I pleased at least a couple of you and I hope it was worth the wait. **

**A few side notes: Victoria Regina was the reigning Queen of England during Holmes's time. Emma Gitali is not an author, she is the OC of Colours Doyle. And I started giving people nicknames towards the end because I was lazy and it felt weird, like constantly saying 'Sherlock Holmes' or 'Doctor John Watson'. ****And yes, disoriented-problem did get in just because she's practically my sister. You wanna make something of it? If I can put you in a scene with Holmes, I can put you in a scene with a big hungry dinosaur as well. :) On that note, review!**

**Thanks to Colours Doyle, Curreeus, DreamingImagination, Ginger Locks, GlassAngel, indianajonesmarion4eva, Lady Sally, Pale Treasures, PhantomProducer, Queen Irene Holmes, and Riverwater12 for their great reviews. I apologize that not everyone got put in. ):**

**Look, another novel!**


	9. Elevator, Mall

**Disclaimer: Sherly doesn't belong to me, and neither does Johnny. Or Gladdy. Or any of the brand names mentioned in this lurvely excursion. **

**A/N: First of all, I forgot to say in the last update that PhantomProducer helped cause the idea of guest appearances to pop into my head. She probably doesn't even remember, but I am obsessive about giving credit where even the smallest amount of credit is due. Now, back to the present update, this one started as Holmes meets elevator, suggested by disoriented-problem. But as I could think of no place we would encounter an elevator besides the mall, the mall is included as well, which is good because it was suggested itself by Lady Sally. Thanks to both for the wonderful ideas-as a matter of fact, thanks to all of you who have contributed and kept the story going. :) This one is pretty humorous (and long) if I do say so myself, so enjoy! **

* * *

"And then I told Watson he was being absurd, because there is no way any sane male human being would ever voluntarily link himself with a female of the—"

"Holmes, as interesting as this is, if you're just going to slam women, I'm going to slam you," I said.

"My point is proven," he replied. "Where are you going?"

I paused, looking over to his place against the kitchen counter. "What makes you think I'm going anywhere?"

"You have shoes on. You never have shoes on in the house. And you left the garage door open earlier, to save you the trouble of pushing that one little button. And you keep pulling your jeans up, which you never bother doing unless you're going out in view of men, because I have gathered you don't like your so-called 'flashing'."

"Yes, thank you, Holmes." I paused again. "I pull my jeans up at home. After all, you're a man. Do you think I want you staring at my underwear?"

He shook his head. "Underwear, such a pesky invention. Why I ever would be looking at yours is beyond me."

I groaned, reading between the lines. "_Please_ tell me you're not going commando. Again."

"Woman, if you're not going to say something productive and pleasant, say nothing." Holmes stood up straight. "I think it fair to inform you that I am accompanying you today."

"You really don't have to do that," I said as I rummaged through the drawer for my keys.

"No, I think I do. In this horrid modern world, a lady needs some protection. You could get run over by a car or addicted to nicotine, or spontaneously combust," Holmes said. "And I would miss you very much if that were to happen."

I smiled at his quirky concern and ruffled his hair as I walked past him. "Thanks, Holmes. You're like my belt. No flashing, and no spontaneous combustion."

He followed me briskly, answering, "Incidentally, why don't you just get pants that fit?"

"They do fit!"

"Lies, woman, lies."

* * *

So moved was I by his sudden bout of protectiveness that I forgot to consider the consequences of him tagging along. It wasn't until we had pulled into the parking lot that I realized just how bad an idea this may be.

"What is this place, woman?" Holmes stared in wonder out the window at the rows upon rows upon rows of cars.

"The mall," I said.

"What on earth is a mall?"

"It's a bunch of stores in one place. Like, a ton of stores."

"Oh. Then you mean a marketplace."

"…sort of. We'll just go with that."

We hopped out of the car and headed towards the big sprawling building. I glanced at Holmes—or more specifically, his conspicuously out-of-this-era clothing. He stared back.

"Woman…quit looking at me like that. I'm not a zoo monkey."

"Maybe not, but your clothes…."

"My clothes are not zoo monkeys either," Holmes said gently.

I rolled my eyes. "You're very noticeable, Holmes, that's what I'm trying to say. You stand out."

"Well of course I stand out! I'm Sherlock Holmes!" he exclaimed, holding out his arms.

"You know…that really is the best way to put it," I agreed.

We had only just crossed the halfway mark in the parking lot. "Couldn't you have placed the car any closer?" Holmes complained.

"If only, Holmes, if only."

"What is your need for coming to this mall?" he asked. "Is something wrong with the Wall's Mart?"

"Wal-Mart, Holmes, Wal-Mart. And no, there's nothing wrong with it…we're just going to the mall today. The mall has more stuff. And there's people."

Holmes cocked his head at this. "But you abhor people."

"But you need social exposure, darling."

Together we walked into the Macy's section of the mall. Holmes opened the door for me and I smiled at him. "You're being good today."

"Root beer float?" he said hopefully, enjoying the recently-discovered dessert almost as much as his original beverage.

"Okay, sure. If you keep up the good behavior."

We wandered out of Macy's and into the walkway. Stores lined the walls of the elliptical building, and in the middle of the floor was a large, railed-off opening. Holmes let out an 'oo' and hurried to the edge. He peered over the railing, down to the lower level.

"This mall is indeed very large, woman," he said, sounding a little awed. "And there are people everywhere."

"Let's go to…Claire's," I suggested. I started walking and he followed.

"Claire's?"

"For earrings." I knew what he was about to say. "No. No piercings for you."

He grumbled. "You and Watson think much alike."

I grinned.

* * *

Another hour and a half passed quickly. We went from Claire's to Penny's to a candy store for Holmes—and me as well—and then to Build-A-Bear, as the sleuth was fascinated by the fluff machine. We also visited Aeropostale, some electronics store, and then a rather hardcore skater shop. Holmes was intrigued, but I was terrified, so we scooted quickly out of there and to the food court, where he had a moment of insanity over French fries.

Finally we settled in Love Sac. Holmes was overjoyed to find another large pink beanbag, and I was just happy to sit down.

"Woman, you may bring me here again," Holmes said, squishing his plushy little brown puppy—it was wearing a neat little shirt, vest, and pants, making it look rather like Holmes himself. "I rather like this mall."

"You think Watson will like his friend?" I asked, rummaging through bags for my phone.

Holmes was making his brown puppy and the bulldog we'd gotten for Watson dance. "Yes, quite."

"I still think we should've gotten you some clothes at Aeropostale," I said.

"Woman, do you remember the last time you attempted to modernize me?"

My mind went back to a day full of Tony Stark paradoxes. "Oh…yeah."

"Besides," he said, "I never wear things with French words on them. Le Français et leurs vêtements, no?"

"Holmes, how many times do I have to tell you I don't speak French?"

He grinned. "Je sais." I rolled my eyes and the sleuth chuckled. "Though we may not have gotten any clothing for me, I am glad to see you have some new pants. They fit better, yes?"

"Holmes, they're exactly the same size as the ones I'm wearing."

"Woman, why on earth would you do something as ridiculous as getting _more _pants that don't fit?"

"For the millionth time, they fit! My butt just isn't that big!"

Holmes shook his head. "If you say so." I glared daggers at him and he looked innocent. "I was referring to the fact that they fit."

I huffed. "Let's change the subject, because I'm not in favor of sitting here talking about the size of my butt with you."

"Would you rather talk about mine?"

"No, Holmes, not really."

"Watson's?"

"No!"

"Good, because that would be gossiping. About Watson's lower half, no less."

I snorted and let my head fall back on the beanbag. After a moment, there was a rustling sound and a 'hmmm' from Holmes. Sitting up, I found him holding up a bra.

"When did we get this?" he wondered.

"Holmes!" I yelped. "Put that back!"

He glanced up at me and dropped it back in its bag. "Really, woman. I don't believe that is ours."

"It most certainly isn't ours, it's mine!"

"When did you get it? I have no memory of a store full of ladies' undergarments."

"That's because I had no intention of bra shopping with you around," I said shortly. "I left you in the candy store for a few minutes." It had been a hard decision—leave Holmes alone in a wonderland of sugar, or take him to a store filled with underwear.

"Inconsiderate of you," he sniffed. Glancing in the bag again, he shook his head. "So much smaller than a corset. How it does anything is beyond me."

"What is it about this store that is bringing us to horribly awkward conversations?" I sighed, deciding it was time to move on and standing up.

"I don't know, what is it?"

"No, Holmes, that was a rhetorical question."

"Well there you go. Rhetorical questions are always bringing on awkward conversations."

"Oh hush, Holmes. Grab those for me," I said, gesturing to a few bags I couldn't handle.

"Why can't we take the escalators?" he asked as we passed them.

"Because it took me fifteen minutes to get you off of them the last time," I said. "We're taking the elevator."

"That's what I said, the escalator."

"No, Holmes, _elevator_."

"Your language is ridiculous."

I rolled my eyes again as we reached the elevator. "It's your language too. Push that button."

"Why?" he demanded.

"Because we need the elevator to come, that's why."

Holmes stiffly pushed the button. His eyes lit up as the little arrow did.

The doors slid open and we stepped inside. "Oh," Holmes said. "You meant a lift."

"Yeah. A lift." I shook my head. "You Brit."

At the sight of the other buttons, Holmes held his arm in front of me. "I'll handle it, woman. Number two, yes?"

"Yeah."

He pressed the button. The doors slid closed and the elevator started to rise. Holmes poked his stomach curiously at the vertigo. "Much faster than the lifts I am accustomed to."

"Welcome to the twenty-first century."

We reached the second floor and there was a small beep to tell us so. However, a second later, the lights flickered. Both Holmes and I looked up before the little space was plunged into pitch blackness and the elevator stopped.

"…woman? Was that…supposed to happen?" asked Holmes from nowhere.

"No," I said in a small voice. Worriedly I set our many bags aside and slowly sat down on the floor.

A moment later there was a crinkle and a Holmes-y grumble from my right as he encountered the shopping bags. "Did you have to put those there?" I nodded before realizing he couldn't see, but by then he had moved them out of his way anyway. Sighing, he crawled to my side and sat next to me. "Do you know what the problem is?"

"The power's probably out," I murmured, trying not to think of the distance below us and the thin little cable that had just been jolted to a halt up above.

"Electricity," Holmes muttered disapprovingly. I had to smile. In the dark, he went to put his arm around my shoulders. "Don't be frightened, woman. We'll be fine."

"Holmes," I said, "get your arm off my legs."

"What? Oh." With his incredible powers of deduction, he quickly discovered that he had put his arm protectively around my raised knees. "My mistake."

I nudged my way under his arm and Holmes squeezed me tightly. A long, long minute or two passed before Holmes spoke again.

"I'm beginning to become claustrophobic."

"That doesn't sound good," I said uneasily.

"Oh, don't fret," Holmes reassured me. "I'll only begin to rock and cry and slowly lose my sanity."

I shrunk away from him and he chuckled. "I was just kidding, woman."

"Don't do that," I whimpered. "It's bad enough I'm afraid of heights."

"We aren't that far up."

"High enough it would still hurt a lot if we fell."

"Hmm. I take it you have never been trapped in an elevator before?"

"No, of course not!"

"Ah. This is my first time as well."

I let out a half-laugh.

Another couple of minutes dragged by. I opened my mouth to say something, as with Holmes it was never this quiet and it was making the situation worse, when he broke his own silence. "Woman…although I believe that the odds of us perishing in this situation are approximately 753 to one…I should not like to die without thanking you, and I believe thanks are in order anyway."

"For what?" I asked curiously.

"For…many things. For allowing Watson and I to share your home, for allowing me to pester you to no end…for keeping me supplied with carbonation…." He paused, as though struggling with the words. "I am well aware that I'm not…the easiest person to live with…and I appreciate the effort."

I smiled and hugged him. "Love you too, Holmes."

Not long after, the lights flickered back on and the elevator began to rise again. I picked my head up off of Holmes's shoulder and he stood, helping me to my feet. As we gathered the scattered, upended shopping bags and the doors opened, Holmes said in a nonchalant tone, "I trust what has passed between us in this little escalator will not reach Watson's ears?"

"Elevator, Holmes…and of course not."

He looked relieved. "Wonderful. Because, of course, Watson would never cease to rub it in my face. I'm not supposed to be affectionate towards any female, and that includes you."

I wondered if Holmes really believed he was fooling Watson—because there was no doubt in my mind that the doctor was aware of this "affection". But I nodded and agreed with him as we walked back through Macy's and out the door.

I stopped on the sidewalk and groaned dejectedly. "What?" Holmes asked.

"I forgot to make a note of where we parked," I sighed.

"At the end of Row H," he replied automatically.

I smiled. "Thanks, Holmes. I owe you a root beer float, don't I?"

He grinned.

* * *

**I dearly hope there wasn't too much mention of underwear in this update for the public eye. xD I also hope you enjoyed that little snuggle moment towards the end...I'm still attempting to be adamant against a relationship but my resolve is slowly crumbling. T^T We'll just see what happens. Oh, and I should probably mention that I have nothing against hardcore skaters. It's just dark stores blaring music with strobe lights and skulls really do scare me. R&R if you loved it, and if you hated it, R&R anyway! **


	10. Toothpaste, Showers

**Disclaimer: Sweet little Holmesy and dear little Watsy aren't mine. Oh how I wish that were different. **

**A/N: As updates featuring multiple objects have become commonplace, we'll just stop pointing it out. xD I had to look up the history tidbits in this one, yet I'm not sure how early all that was known. So maybe Holmes is just a genius. A little more Watson in this update as well, for all those doctor fans. I apologize for the length, as it just kind of grew out of itself. Enjoy! **

* * *

I was humming happily, putting away dishes in the kitchen, when I heard a damp sort of squeak behind me. Turning around, I let out a little scream at the sight of Holmes, dripping wet and wrapped in a towel.

"Woman, don't be alarmed," he said, holding up a hand. The other hand was busy keeping him somewhat clothed.

"Holmes, _what _are you doing?"

"Well…I _was_ taking a bath, when it began to rain," he explained.

"What? What are you talking about?" I exclaimed. "First of all, it doesn't rain indoors, Holmes, even you should know that. And secondly, you were taking a _bath_? Of your own free will?"

I then took a closer look at the thick, white goop covering his hair. What I had taken for soap was too sticky, too creamy, and not entirely white.

"Holmes…what is that?"

"What is what?"

I approached him and he started backing away. "Woman, what are you doing?"

"Hold still, I'm trying to see your hair."

"You can see it from back there!" He continued backing up until he bumped into the wall. Having cornered him, I grabbed his slippery shoulder and leaned towards his head. He stared at me, looking a little terrified. "Woman! What on earth are you trying to do?"

"Holmes, your hair smells like mint," I said. "That doesn't bode well."

"Ah…woman," Holmes whispered. "This, uh…."

"What? Why are you whispering?"

He cleared his throat. "Watson."

I looked over, where Watson was searching through the kitchen for something to eat. He glanced at us and he hid a smile beneath his moustache. "Oh, don't let me interrupt, by any means. Continue."

I felt myself flush and Holmes tightened his towel around his waist. "I would greatly appreciate it if you released me, woman."

"Sorry." I let go of his shoulder. "Now what were you saying about rain?"

"I believe he means the shower, my dear," Watson called, grabbing an apple from the fridge.

"Holmes, you've never taken a shower?" I said in disbelief.

"He's taken about seven baths in his lifetime," the doctor put in helpfully.

"Watson, it would be most helpful if you would stop talking," Holmes said. He turned back to me. "I know what a shower is, woman. I just am not accustomed to the modern version. The shower was invented by the ancient Greeks, but fell out of use over time. It was recently restored in a slightly different form in 1810, although the bath has—"

"So you accidentally turned the shower on, is that what you're trying to tell me?" I interrupted.

"Precisely."

Watson had mastered the shower a long time ago and rather enjoyed it, but Holmes—as he rarely even entered the bathroom—barely knew we had one. However, what Holmes meant by 'rain' wasn't my only question.

"What about the toothpaste?" I inquired. "I'm pretty sure you can tell the difference between toothpaste and shampoo."

"Of course I can," Holmes scoffed. "I've even seen you use your paste."

"Then _why_ did you put it on your hair?"

"Because I wanted to smell like mint. I abhor coconut, and that's the only shampoo you own."

"Yes, well, you can't leave it on there. It's not supposed to go anywhere but your mouth," I said.

"I quite agree. My scalp is burning."

"Why didn't you say so earlier? Let's go wash it off."

"No." Holmes shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Because I am never setting foot in that bathroom again."

"Yes you are," I countered.

"No."

"What about when you have to go?"

"Prior to the third millennium BC, primal man had no toilet," Holmes replied.

"You are just full of history lessons today, aren't you," I remarked. "Come on. I'll help you."

"You're going to help him shower?" Watson said incredulously. "Woman, you are a brave soul. Even I have not attempted to undertake that task." Holmes glared at him.

"No! Nonononono, I am _not_ helping Holmes shower!" I said quickly.

"Good!" the sleuth forcefully agreed. "Wait, why not?"

"Because that's just disturbing and strange and weird and full of _so_ much more information than I _ever_ want to know," I shuddered. "Instead, we're going to lean your head over the tub and scrub your hair."

Holmes paused. "…wouldn't you rather help me shower?"

"Not at all. Come on, Holmes."

Ten minutes later, Watson and I had succeeded in getting Holmes to the bathroom door, fifteen feet from where we had been standing. There he braced himself against the doorframe in such a way that neither of us could do a thing to budge him.

"You're being ridiculous, Holmes! It's only a bath!" Watson yelled, shoving his friend forward.

"_Only_ a bath?" Holmes shouted back. "It's the most terrible form of torture!"

"Come on, Holmes! You need to get the stupid toothpaste out of your hair!" I insisted.

"No!"

With much grunting and sighing, Watson and I gave up to rest yet again.

"This is insane," I panted.

"I must agree."

"You're giving up so soon?" Holmes asked. We glared at him.

"It seems this will take quite an amount of finesse," Watson said. "But exactly what?" He looked thoughtful. "We can rule out threats…I have learned Holmes doesn't respond well when they aren't carried out, and insists on revenge when they are. We can also rule out your womanly charm, as he's quite sexist and won't fall for such a thing in the first place."

"You are aware that I can hear every word you're saying," Holmes stated.

"We can also rule out my womanly charm because that would be embarrassing and I wouldn't do it anyway," I said, ignoring him.

"I suppose we must resort to bribery," Watson decided.

"Oh, I've got this down," I assured him, standing up and ducking under Holmes's arm. Standing squarely in front of him, in a voice as though commanding a disobedient dog, I said, "Holmes, if you allow us to take you into the bathroom, I'll give you three whole bottles of root beer, two candy bars, the TV remote for a day, and I'll let you climb around on the roof provided you don't try to fly again, or sacrifice me. Deal?"

He considered it, and then nodded. "Deal."

Relinquishing his grip on the doorframe, he walked calmly in. Then suddenly, he whirled around and attempted to bolt out. Luckily Watson was blocking the way.

Holmes huffed. "The bitter taste of defeat."

"Somehow I knew you'd do that," Watson said.

"You told me to go into the bathroom, and I did. You never specified how long you wanted me there," Holmes said in a haughty tone.

"Long enough for us to wash your head," I answered.

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'us', madam," Watson murmured. I looked at him curiously. "From what I can see, there's only room for two by the bathtub…you and Holmes."

I groaned. "Watson…you make that sound so horrible. You have no idea."

"Come now," he said with a wave of his hand. "You're only kneeling beside a bathtub and scrubbing Holmes's hair."

"Somehow that didn't help." I heaved a sigh and took Holmes by the wrist. "Come on."

"Et tu, Watson?" Holmes said pitifully.

"Oh hush," I grumbled.

"I'll guard the door," Watson volunteered, walking out and closing it behind him.

I had a strange bathroom. From the hallway, the door opened into a long, relatively thin room with a counter running the length of it, and a sink on either end. At the far end of the room was another door into another, very tiny room, holding the toilet and beside it, the bathtub. For one it was small, and for two it was cramped. I pulled Holmes into the smaller room and closed the door behind us with some difficulty.

"Okay, Holmes, kneel down right there," I ordered as I pointed to the floor.

"I will not," he said firmly.

"I'm sure you've knelt in places much worse. Down."

The sleuth sighed and got down on his knees, adjusting his towel accordingly. "Is this satisfactory?"

"Yeah," I nodded. I knelt beside him and reached over, turning on the water. "How's that feel?"

Holmes poked at it. "Too cold."

I turned it warmer and he tested it once more.

"Too hot."

I changed it a second time.

"Too cold again."

"Holmes, just deal with it."

He huffed. "Now what, woman?"

"Lean over, hon."

Holmes stared at me. "…into the water? You must be joking."

"Nope."

He heaved another sigh. "I want more candy."

"I can do that."

"Good." Holmes swallowed and closed his eyes, wrinkling his nose. "I'm going to drown." He leaned forward until his head and shoulders were over the bathtub.

I put my hand on the back of his neck and steered his head into the water, where he promptly yelped and jerked out. "Hey! Holmes!"

"You must warn me, woman!"

"Okay, okay, sorry."

"Why can't I just do this myself?"

"Because you won't do a good enough job, Holmes. You virtually don't even know how to bathe. Now let's try this again." I held his neck and pushed him back into the water. He let out a tiny whimper as water ran over his head and dripped down the sides of his face. "Hey, you're fine," I comforted. "Just relax and we'll finish faster."

I got his entire head wet and the tub already began to fill with toothpaste foam. For a moment I hesitated, and then started scrubbing out his hair. My hands were almost immediately covered with the minty goo and I winced, hating the feel of toothpaste even prior to this.

"You're touching me," Holmes said in his personal-space-invasion tone.

"I'm getting the crap out of your hair."

"This is not crap, it is toothpaste."

"You don't know how glad I am of that fact."

After a minute, he spoke again, having been keeping his mouth closed tightly for fear of drowning. "Is it gone yet?"

"…yeah, there we go."

"Good." He flung himself up, water flying wildly everywhere.

I yelped. "No, Holmes, get back down there! You're not done!"

"But you said it was gone!" His hair was sticking up in all directions.

"I said you're not done." I shoved him back over the tub and grabbed the shampoo, lathering it into his hair.

He groaned. "Coconut."

"Yeah. Coconut."

Four or five minutes later, the door opened and Watson looked up. Out walked Holmes, still in his towel, with a new one on his head. He glanced at the doctor as he passed. "Hello, old boy."

Watson furrowed his brow. "Wait…where's—"

"Right here, Watson." I walked slowly out of the bathroom and into the hall, absolutely soaked to the skin.

The doctor stared. "Good heavens, what happened?"

"He turned on the shower," I said through clenched teeth.

"…you were in the bathtub? However did you get—"

"Don't ask. _Please_ don't ask." I headed towards my room with the intent of changing. "Oh yeah, Watson? The next time _you're_ bathing him."

I opened the door, walked in, and closed it. An instant later, a loud scream came from the room. The door was flung open and Holmes stumbled out, followed by my crazed yell of "GET OUT OF MY ROOM BEFORE I SHAVE YOUR HEAD!"

Holmes stood in the hall and huffed. "Women. Always overreacting."

* * *

**And now I am polling the masses. I have already asked a few of you, but for those who I missed, what do you think about the relationship between Holmes and I? Should it progress into something romantic, or should we stay "just friends"? Are we making POC a happy hypocrite or a lonesome...non-liar? Review or PM with your opinion! :) **


	11. The Sleepover

**Disclaimer: Neither Holmes nor Watson belong to me. However, I belong to myself, and Lauren belongs to herself as well. So no stealing us. **

**A/N: I snapped. You all knew it was gonna happen sooner than later. And this seemed like a nice opportunity to let Holmes do the talking, so therefore pay attention to the header telling you whose POV it is. As if you couldn't tell anyway, you smartie-pantses, you. BTW, this ended up insanely long so I apologize for eating up your time. And your potato chips. Yes, that was me. **

* * *

**PTC**

Windows two blocks away were shattered by my scream.

"_HOLMES_!"

* * *

He stood quietly, hands behind his back and head lowered meekly as I paced deliberately back and forth in front of him.

"My car," I growled. "You were trying to wash…my car."

"I wanted to help you," he mumbled.

"You opened the windows."

"The inside needed cleaning too…."

"And you filled my car—_my car_—with water."

"I'm sorry," Holmes said quickly.

I rubbed my temples. "That car was my baby, Holmes. It took me _forever_ to get one, let alone _that_ one—"

"It took you forever to get a baby?" The corners of his mouth were twitching.

I gave him a death glare and he immediately went back to the funeral look. "You have no idea how mad I am."

"Woman, I—"

"I need a break. From you."

He looked up, furrowing his brow. "A…a break?"

"Yeah."

"Well…what are you going to do?"

I sighed. "My friend, Lauren. I am…handing you over to her for a few days. You cannot be left unsupervised."

"…is she aware of this?"

"She will be in about thirty seconds." I stomped to the phone. Holmes trailed worriedly after me.

"Are you sure you don't want to…reconsider?"

"Absolutely." I dialed her number and waited impatiently for her to pick up. "Hey, Lauren. I need to ask a favor. I…need you to watch Holmes. No, just for a few days! It's not that bad, I promise, he just has destructive tendencies—"

Click.

Holmes watched curiously as I threw a miniature tantrum for a few seconds. "Are you well…?"

"She hung up," I huffed. "We're going to try this again."

It took truthfully three more calls before she agreed to it: the first, she adamantly yelled no. The second, Holmes hung up for me as he heard her resolve crumbling. After scolding him thoroughly, the third call proved successful. Holmes was to stay at her house for five days, leaving me at home for almost an entire Holmes-free week—most of which would be spent drying out my car.

Later that day, Holmes and I were climbing the stairs to Lauren's door. He had one bag of a few necessities, namely his pipe, a book or two, the barest minimum of extra clothes as I didn't expect him to bathe much while there, a couple candy bars, and a Snuggie.

I rang the bell and as we stood there, I said in a no-nonsense tone, "You better behave yourself, Holmes. You do exactly what Lauren tells you."

He was about to reply when the door swung open. Lauren eyed him skeptically. "Are you _sure_ you want me to do this?"

"Completely," I said. "Okay. So he has no bedtime, but if he's not in his room by midnight he's in trouble. Occasionally he has insomnia, so he might be up all night and if that happens, you _have_ to keep sugar away from him the next day or you'll need to keep him on a leash for about twenty-four hours. It's a good idea to keep sugar away from him in the first place, but I've had almost zero luck with that anyway. Oh, and make sure you know where your dog is at all times, and no matter what he says, he isn't allowed to drive, text, cook, do laundry, use the phone, touch the computer, use Netflix, vacuum, or watch FEARnet. Got it?"

Lauren looked a little dazed. Holmes looked foiled. I smiled. "If all else fails, just sit him down and turn on Martha Speaks."

"Okay…" she said slowly. "Come on, Holmes."

He turned to me, big brown eyes filled with abandonment. "I don't suppose a last-minute apology would help?"

"Nope!" I smiled again and ruffled his hair. "You'll both be fine. I'll be back in a few days." With that, I left my little Holmes on the doorstep and headed back home to enjoy 120 hours of no yelling, scolding, chasing, arguing, or cleaning.

"Holmes, are you coming?"

He sighed and walked reluctantly inside.

* * *

**Holmes**

The short, blonde-haired Lauren took me upstairs and led me to a room. She explained that this was where I would be staying and left me to get "settled in". She closed the door behind her, and I easily knew that meant she would like me to stay there. Of course I had no intention of doing so.

I set the bag full of my things on the bed and proceeded to investigate the bedroom and adjoining bathroom. Both seemed to be there solely for the use of guests, as every drawer and cupboard was empty. Once I had established that the room was thoroughly unentertaining, I ventured beyond the closed door.

Miss Lauren lived in a bigger home than I was accustomed to. I wandered in and out of various rooms, finding nothing that piqued my interest for more than a minute, until I discovered her bedroom. It was filled with art supplies and sketches, and I was quite amused for some time, until she discovered me there.

"Holmes! What are you doing, get out of there!" she exclaimed.

"I was merely observing," I said. "You are a talented artist."

"…thank you," was her hesitant reply. "Uh…dinner's ready."

I slipped my hands into the pockets of my coat. "I'm not hungry."

She sighed. "Well you have to eat."

"No." I shook my head.

Looking exasperated, Lauren turned and walked out. I ambled from her room back to mine and sat on the bed, staring thoughtfully at the floor.

Perhaps I was being too hard on the woman. I was already aware I was a difficult person to live with, although I had not yet pinpointed exactly why. However, I did know that she often did not enjoy my experimenting, my unique habits, or my insatiable curiosity as much as I did.

A sobering thought entered my mind. What if she were to leave me here, longer than the proposed five days? What if I was being discarded, separated even from Watson, who remained even now at her residence? I swallowed, attempting to imagine spending the foreseeable future in this house with Miss Lauren. The scenarios that entered my mind were frightening, to say the least. There was only one thing to do.

Silent as a feline, I crept down the stairs and towards the door. I had reached it and just turned the knob, when suddenly a terrifyingly emotionless female voice echoed through the house and said 'front door'. I froze, eyes darting around in search of this unseen informant.

Miss Lauren peered around the corner. "Holmes…you have to stay inside."

I huffed. "Your house has vocal chords."

"It's a recording."

A recording. That bore investigation.

"Come on, Holmes. Come eat, right now."

Reluctantly, I moved from the door to the kitchen and sat down. Miss Lauren set a bowl and a fork in front of me.

"Macaroni and cheese," she said.

I supposed I should be glad it was something I liked, but I wasn't particularly in an optimistic mood. Without much interest, I poked at the yellow noodles. She sat in the chair across from me and I could feel her staring. "Madam, I have looked in a mirror many times in my life and never have I noticed anything that would have cause for gawking," I murmured without looking up.

"You know she'll get over it," was her reply.

This was cause to look up, but I restrained myself. "I don't know what you're talking about, wom—madam."

"You're obviously upset about it," Miss Lauren continued.

"Upset about what, pray tell?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Holmes." I snuck a glance at her. She was still staring. "I've been her friend for sixteen years. She might not be happy now, but she'll get over it…maybe even before the five days are up."

I sighed, melancholy. "I loathe being abandoned," I muttered.

Miss Lauren shook her head. "She didn't abandon you, Holmes. You're being melodramatic."

"_You're_ being melodramatic," I grumbled. With a sigh, I rose from the table. "I want no noodles with cheese. I don't feel well. I am ill and must be given smoothies."

She sighed as well. "Holmes, if you're not going to eat, just go up to bed."

"Fine." I stalked away. "If I am overcome with sickness and vanish mysteriously from my room—"

"The windows are locked and the alarm system is on, Holmes."

"Madam, you are truly cruel."

"No, just careful."

Muttering to myself, I stomped to my room.

There I stayed for many hours, until sunlight gave up on shining through my window and I was left in the lonesome, yet comforting, darkness. At that point I had created, recreated, revised, and perfected a foolproof plan to ensure I was returned home a full ninety-six hours ahead of schedule—fashionably early, as usual. It promised to be most effective, and quite simple as well.

I would be as impossible, unbearable, insufferable, intolerable, and generally as difficult as I could be. Miss Lauren would become so fed up with my behavior she would have no choice but to send me back. Upon seeing my face, both the woman and Watson would be overcome with appreciation for me, realize how invaluable I was to them, and never even consider sending me away again.

As always, it was a flawless scheme.

Very quietly, I crept downstairs and into the kitchen. The first step to this plot would be gathering the materials. The house was unfamiliar to me, but I was sure Miss Lauren possessed all the objects I needed and obtaining them would not be difficult.

Stealing through kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and garage, I set my scheme into motion.

* * *

The next morning, Miss Lauren shuffled down the stairs in her sleepwear, yawning and looking quite sleepy. The moment she entered the kitchen, however, she was alerted that everything was not peachy. Actually, everything _was_ peachy…and appley, and orangey, and covered in yogurt, milk, and marshmallow crème. In fact, most of the contents of the refrigerator and pantry were strewn across the floor, counters, walls, and, in the case of the salad dressing, on the ceiling.

"HOLMES!"

It was showtime.

She stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs, barging quite rudely into my room. I could hear her begin to yell, and then stop as she realized I was not there, although my bed had been entirely stripped of all fabric and the mattress was hanging halfway out of the window.

I could audibly track her progress above me, moving from my room, down the hall, past her own room, around the corner, and down the stairs. She was stomping hard enough to bring the roof down on top of me.

"Holmes, this is completely and totally unaccepta—" Her voice seemed to vanish as she entered the living room.

Allow me to paint a picture of my handiwork.

Both cushions had been removed from the loveseat and were now residing on the top of the entertainment center. The TV was on, but muted—I was considerate of my sleeping hostess. Many rolls of toilet paper were draped from every available surface, as well as many that were unavailable, and they gave the room a uniquely festive appearance. Popcorn had found its way into every crevice the room possessed, as had goldfish crackers, and the carpet was damp in many places from various liquids.

I myself was lounging quite comfortably on the couch, with the speakers from her tiny musical device in my ears and turned up so loudly I couldn't hear myself think—a tragic thing indeed. My clothing was littered with crumbs and goo of various colors, consistencies, and degrees of edibility. And my pants were around my ankles.

It took Miss Lauren a moment to realize that, although I am sure she was yelling at the very top of her lungs, I could not hear a word she was saying. She ripped the speakers from my ears.

"Holmes, what on _earth_ did you do last night?"

I smacked my lips. "I do not know what you mean." Looking around, I remarked, "Goodness. Did _I_ do this?"

"Yes! Are you insane?" Miss Lauren walked restlessly back and forth. "Is that _peanut butter_ in your hair? And you have chocolate syrup all over your face!"

"Ahh, two of my favorite things. Chocolate and syrup. Combined, it's practically a miracle."

"And are those my shoes? On the chandelier?"

"Yes. It took a while to get them up there, so I hope you appreciate it."

"Holmes, did you _break_ that window?"

"Couldn't be helped."

She looked over and seemed to notice my lack of trousers for the first time. "Holmes! Where are your pants?"

"They're right here. Calm down," I said, pulling them back up. "Honestly, your overreactions are atrocious. I'm sure there are medications for that."

She was rubbing her temples. "Why, Holmes? Why would you even…think this is _remotely_ okay?"

"No reason."

"No reason? So what, you just mindlessly destroy things?" she exclaimed.

"Mindlessly is not the right word. I have a very powerful mind. Occasionally I just…switch it off," I said. "Besides, it isn't as if this is unusual behavior for me," I shrugged. "I do it all the time."

"Oh really."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, really."

She smiled sweetly—a feminine look I had learned never to trust. "Well then. Why don't we just call home and see?"

This was something I had not expected. I thought of an excuse quickly. "No. We shouldn't. Everyone's most likely still asleep."

"Alright. We'll call them later," Miss Lauren reassured me.

"No," I said, and was surprised to hear a pleading note in my voice. If the woman found out about the specifics of my plot, my sentence would be extended rather than cut short.

Somehow I always manage to overlook these sorts of consequences. I do not know why.

"Why not?" she pressed.

"I'll behave," I promised. Miss Lauren raised a brow and I held my hands up to prove my lack of "crossies".

She sighed. "Fine. If you clean up the mess and _don't do it again_, I won't call."

I thanked her graciously and went about removing grape jelly from the walls.

* * *

For the next four days, I behaved angelically. I ate every meal without complaint and refrained from helping to cook. I stayed out of Miss Lauren's bedroom and bathroom. I did not use her shampoo for paint. I did not use her paint for shampoo. I was within my bedroom by midnight every night as ordered. I even bathed Wednesday evening. Miss Lauren complimented me on my behavior.

I was absolutely miserable.

I pined for Watson. I missed my woman. I wanted to go home.

* * *

**PTC**

Saturday morning I pulled into Lauren's driveway in my perfectly dry car. Frankly I was glad to see that the house was still standing and there didn't seem to be any outward damage.

I left the car on and climbed out. No sooner had I scaled the steps and rang the bell when the door flew open and Holmes shot out like a bottle rocket.

"WOMAN!"

"Holmes…! I'm glad to see you too, but you're crushing me against a porch railing, which is…really weird."

He was squeezing me so hard my bones were going to shatter. "I missed you, woman. Don't leave me with her again. Ever. Please?"

"Okay, okay!" I managed to remove my face from Holmes's cheek and looked over at Lauren, watching from the doorway with a mixture of amusement and relief. "Did he behave?"

"For the most part."

"What about the not-most part?"

"I'm sorry," Holmes said automatically.

I couldn't help laughing and I hugged him tightly. "Did you help clean up?"

"Yes." He didn't look happy about it.

"I wish I could've seen that."

Lauren waved her hand. "I videoed it."

"We'll have to show it to Watson," I remarked.

Holmes furrowed his brow. "Tell me, woman…did the doctor survive without me?"

I laughed again. "He's fine."

The sleuth breathed a sigh of relief. "I was so worried."

Smiling, I shook my head and pushed him one step back so I could breathe. "You have your things?" Lauren handed me a bag. "Alright then, let's go. What do you say?"

"Hallelujah," he nodded.

I snorted. "No."

"Oh." Holmes looked over at Lauren and sighed. "Thank you for allowing me to stay, Miss Lauren."

"You're very wel—"

At that moment Holmes's bag barked.

The three of us looked down and he unzipped it. Lauren's overzealous Jack Russell terrier leapt out and skittered into the house. All eyes went to Holmes.

"Um," he said. "However did that…get in there?"

"Must be the peanut butter," Lauren said.

"What peanut butter?" I questioned.

"Nothing," Holmes said quickly. "No peanut butter. Shouldn't we be on our way?"

"Yeah. Thanks again, Lauren."

"No problem."

"Bye." Holme waved and we turned to go.

We turned just in time to see my baby, parking brake unengaged, roll out of the driveway and slam into the column of bricks the neighbors across the street called a mailbox. There was much smashing of glass and denting of metal to be heard.

I was too stunned to speak. Luckily Holmes did it for me.

"Woman…I swear…that was not me."

* * *

**He was connected somehow, I just know it. ;) R&R!**


	12. Oncoming Traffic

**Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes doesn't belong to me. And neither does Rainbow Fish. ;)**

**A/N: This is the first ever two-part installment of My Mind Rebels at the Future! *bows* And that's about all I can say on the matter-you'll just have to read it. **

* * *

"So how exactly did melting all the popsicles in the freezer accomplish…anything?" I asked Holmes as we walked down the street.

"Well I wanted rainbow juice," he said, "and since the popping sicles are so colorful, I figured that I could mix them. However…it all turned a rather disturbing shade of brown."

"Yes, I saw. You dumped it in the fish bowl."

He threw up his hands. "How can you expect anything else of me after giving me Rainbow Fish to read?"

I rolled my eyes. "Rainbow Fish is a work of fiction."

"Says you."

I snorted.

Holmes shook his head as we reached the corner of the street. "Woman, you are so closed-minded." He stepped off the curb. "You live in a world of such possibilities, and yet—"

"_Holmes_!" I screamed and my hands flew to my mouth as a big blue Suburban charged down the road and Holmes disappeared beneath the car.

The minute the driver realized what had happened, the vehicle screeched to a halt. The other cars in the lane stopped as well, the driver in front setting the motion off. Immediately cell phones were whipped out everywhere.

I dropped on my knees next to Holmes. There was no blood that I could see for the moment, but the color was quickly draining from his face and his eyes were horribly unfocused. He mumbled something unintelligible.

"Holmes, oh my gosh, Holmes!" was repeatedly spewing from my mouth.

"Stop your…fussing, woman," he grumbled, trying to sit up. "I'm fine." His eyes crossed and he grimaced, grunting in pain and dropping back to the street.

"Holmes, don't move, you just got hit by a car!" I exclaimed. "You could have…neck injuries, or internal bleeding, or…." I whimpered. "Holmes!"

"I'm fine…" he murmured, and closed his eyes.

I was about to order him to stay awake or else, when someone ran up with phone in hand.

"I just called the hospital," they informed me. "They have an ambulance in the area, they should be here in five minutes."

The driver of the Suburban rushed up. "I'm so sorry—is he okay?"

My lip quivered. "I-I don't know." I leaned down and cradled his head, fighting tears. "Holmes…."

* * *

I both liked and hated the sound of the heart monitor. The steady, rhythmic beep…beep…beeping was helping to calm me down, yet every beep meant a pulse of Holmes's heart, which was extremely unsettling. I kept holding my breath, half expecting it to suddenly stop. Gratefully, it didn't.

He looked a little better, aside from the two IVs in his arms, one in his right wrist and the other in the crook of his left elbow, as his left wrist had been sprained by the fall and was bandaged. His chest was covered by the blanket, but uncovered it didn't look so good. His flesh was discolored by yellow and purple bruises, and there were straight lines in the middle of his torso—abrasions from compound fracturing of five of his ribs. The bones hadn't broken the skin, but they had certainly tried. He'd also suffered a minor concussion from hitting his head on the pavement. Thankfully there'd been no injury to his internal organs, but still—the recovery time and the medical bill I had yet to receive were casting storm clouds over the near future.

I called Watson and informed him of what had happened. He had a lengthy surgery to perform, and then he promised he'd catch a ride over the second he was done. In the meantime, it was my task to hover by his bedside—not that it did much, as he had been either unconscious or drugged for the past two and a half hours.

A nurse came in and frowned at me. "You look exhausted, honey."

"What?" I looked up. "Oh…nah, I'm fine, it's only…it's only 4:30. I'm okay."

"You're stressed," she stated, casting a glance at Holmes. "How are you related?"

"He's…just a close friend…." My voice was wavering and I cleared my throat self-consciously.

"Aww, honey. You should get some rest. He's gonna be fine, I promise."

"I'm not sure I can sleep," I said with a sad sort of laugh.

"Here, sweetheart." The nurse handed me a pair of pills. "Make yourself comfortable before you swallow; these will knock you out like a light."

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"You need water?"

"No, I can swallow them without it."

She smiled warmly and, after checking a few things for Holmes, bustled out.

I stared at the little pills in my hand and sighed. There was a slightly comfortable reclining chair across the room, and I stood and made my way over to it. As I sat, I gulped down the pills, and not two minutes later, I was asleep in the chair.

* * *

"Woman…mmph…woman…?"

I let out a just-waking-up noise. "Huh…?" It was then I noticed Holmes twitching in his bed.

Immediately I was up off the chair, and just as immediately I almost fell over, still woozy. "Holmes! Holmes, you're awake!"

He moaned. "I'm not entirely sure…."

I reclaimed my seat beside him. "How do you feel? Do you hurt? What do you remember?"

"Woman, please…hush." He squinted. "You're hurting my head with all these inquiries."

"Sorry," I said hastily. "Holmes…aww, Holmes, I was _terrified_." I leaned forward and wrapped my arms tightly around his neck.

"Agh, woman…what are you doing?"

I buried my face in his hair. "You scared me so bad, Holmes."

"Woman, you're hurting my head _more_."

"I'm sorry." I let him go and settled for simply stroking his mane back from his forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Like a bunch of leprechauns have just knocked me down and pounded me with hammers."

"…interesting." I shook my head.

Holmes wiggled his nose and went to scratch it, noticing for the first time the IVs in his arm. "Good heavens…what is this…abomination?"

"Intravenous…stuff," was my explanation.

"Hmm." He studied the tubes and the liquids inside. "Reminds me vaguely of my cocaine days.

I narrowed my eyes. "If the doctor brings in the tox report and there is anything like that…."

"No, no. I gave it up years ago. Never fear, woman." I was reassured until he said, "…incidentally…what is this 'tox report'?"

He fell asleep again before long, in the middle of my explanation of how x-rays told us he had busted ribs. With a smile, I leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Goodnight, Holmes."

A moment later, he mumbled something that sounded a lot like 'cooties'.

I grinned.

* * *

**I know there are several things you're all wondering. First of all, Watson will be appearing in the next bit, for all you doctor-lovers. Secondly, yes, I can swallow pills without water. Third of all, I did just kiss Holmes's forehead. And all y'all didn't. And lastly, the next installment will be Holmes back at home recovering, which should be a wonderful experience for me. I live for reviews, so feel free to press the button!**


	13. Oncoming Traffic 2

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, and Gladstone do not belong to me. Neither do Goldfish crackers or Hershey Kisses. Neither does Rafikki from Lion King. **

**A/N: And here is Part 2! It isn't my favorite chapter, but it has its moments. And its Watson! And a little Gladstone, for all his fans out there. **

* * *

"Are you comfortable, Holmes?" I asked him, adjusting for the thirtieth time the pillows beneath his head.

"Fine, woman. Stop fussing over me," he said.

"How do you feel, old boy?" Watson wondered.

"Fussed over."

"Aside from that."

"Good."

"Do you need anything?" I said.

"Oh…nothing…."

"You don't sound very convincing, Holmes." Watson nodded in agreement.

"I don't want to bother you…." He frowned.

"For goodness sake, Holmes, it's no trouble," Watson said. "We're right here."

"Well…root beer sounds delicious at this time…" Holmes said slowly.

"Alright, we'll get you root beer," I said. "Watson? You know where it is?"

"Of course." He strode out.

I sat on the edge of the bed. "Anything else, Holmes? Food? A book?"

"Television," he replied.

"Okay. Anything in particular?"

"This one." He held up a familiar, dark teal-tinted DVD case. He was holding back a smirk.

I blinked. "Uhh…no."

"Why not?" Holmes asked innocently. "It has my name on it, doesn't it?"

I glared at him, wondering how he even got it out of my room. "Why ever would you want to watch a movie about yourself?"

"Why wouldn't I? I'm sure we can all agree that I am quite vain."

"No. You are not watching this."

"WATSON! ABUSE! THE WOMAN IS ABUSING ME!" he screeched.

"You know what, you're very lucky that you're already injured," I grumbled, snatching _Sherlock Holmes_ from him and stomping for the door.

Watson arrived just as I reached it, carbonation in hand and brow furrowed. "Are you alright?" he asked me.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be? I thought he was the one being abused."

"Well Holmes has a way of turning things around."

"I wouldn't let him watch this," I explained, holding up the DVD.

Watson scrutinized it. "Is that me?"

"No!" I yelped, shoving the movie behind my back. "Of course not!"

He shook his head. "You and Holmes both are terrible liars. However, I can tell you're under stress and I will refrain from pursuing the matter any further. Why don't you get some rest?"

I squeezed my forehead. "Just keep him happy."

"Naturally."

* * *

I managed about twenty minutes of sleep before it was penetrated by "WOMAN! WOMAN! WOMAN, I REQUIRE YOU _NOW_! WHAT IS TAKING YOU SO LONG TO RESPOND TO MY DISTRESS?"

Groaning, I rolled off my bed and stumbled to Holmes. Immediately my drowsiness was dispelled by the fact that he was hanging backwards off the side of the bed.

"Holmes! What the heck do you think you're doing, you have broken ribs and you're performing acrobatics!" I rushed over to him and eased him gingerly back onto the bed.

"Well I was hungry!"

"So you decided to flip off the bed?"

"No! I pushed all the blankets down and I was going to roll off, so I could then turn over and drag myself to the kitchen. However we encountered some problems with rolling."

"Why didn't you just get up and walk? No—why didn't you get me or Watson?"

"It hurts to walk, and Watson is exercising Gladstone and you sleep like a dead rock!"

"You thought dragging yourself around would hurt less?"

"Anything that can be done should be done with more complication."

"Okay, listen, Rafikki." I pointed at him. "You do not get out of this bed. For anything. Except using the bathroom. And even then, you call Watson."

"Just Watson?"

"Yes just Watson! And whatever else you need, it can't be important enough for you to go rolling around on the floor. You want to get better, don't you?"

"No, woman, I was considering prolonging my recovery."

"Excellent. Stay in bed. Do you need anything now?"

He beamed. "Fishy crackers."

"Okay, Goldfish. Anything else?"

"May I use your little music square?"

"My ipod? Yes, thank you for asking," I said, surprised.

"Good." Holmes reached under his pillow and pulled it out.

I sighed and looked at him for a second. "I…have nothing to say."

He waved his hand in dismissal. "Fishy crackers."

"Stay in bed." With that, I made a trip to the kitchen for snacks. When I returned, I handed them to Holmes and he frowned.

"Where is the chocolate?"

"What chocolate?"

"The chocolate I asked you for."

"You never asked me for chocolate."

"Yes I did. I remember it clearly."

I sighed. "Fine. Chocolate. I'll be right back."

A minute later, I was back with a bag of Hershey's Kisses. "Is that all?"

"You forgot the exploding corn."

"Of course I did." I turned to leave, then glanced back at him. "Anything else while I'm still here?"

"I want a puppy."

"And I want a gorgeous man."

"Goodness, woman, how greedy. Watson and I are already here, how many do you need?"

I rolled my eyes. "No puppy."

"You're cruel."

After a few more minutes, I returned with a large bowl of popcorn. "Here. You should be fine until dinnertime."

"Thank you, woman. Except now I am thirsty."

I smirked and handed him a bottle of water. "Already thought of that, hon."

"No root beer?" he pouted.

"No. You've had enough today."

"One can never have enough liquid."

"Oh, no, there's definitely a limit." I switched on the TV and tossed him the remote as I left. "Entertain yourself."

And to my amazement, he did, until I came back with dinner. The three of us ate in his room and then played every card game I knew at least once. Watson dominated, Holmes cheated, and I learned that Gladstone liked to eat spades.

"Okay, Holmes, you need to get to bed," I said at ten.

"Where do you think I've been all day?" he replied grumpily.

"Alright, you need to get to _sleep_."

"Nonsense."

"She's right, Holmes," Watson said. "If you want to recover, you need rest."

"I want my violin."

"Holmes…" I began.

"Just for a little, and then I'll sleep," he reassured us.

"Where is it?" the doctor wondered.

"In the car," Holmes answered.

I snorted. "Why is it in the car?"

"I don't think I should tell you."

Watson chuckled and went to retrieve it. I picked Gladstone up with great effort and set him on the ground, where he collapsed in a heap and began to snore.

We sat in silence and stared into space until Watson returned with the violin. Holmes smiled and played for a while, until finally he set it down. "I'm finished," he announced, "and I would appreciate it if you would let me sleep."

The doctor and I exchanged astonished looks. "Alright, Holmes," he said. "We'll let you sleep." Watson ruffled his friend's hair. "Goodnight, old boy."

"Goodnight, Watson."

I hopped off the bed and kissed Holmes's forehead again. He wrinkled his nose. "Woman, really. I'm fully conscious."

"Yes, I know." Setting his violin on the desk, I walked to the door and closed it behind me. "Goodnight, Holmes."

"Sweet dreams, woman."

* * *

Weeks passed, and I began to worry. Holmes was certainly improving, but every time Watson checked him he said he wasn't fully recovered yet.

A full month and a half later, I peeked into Holmes's room in the morning. A mess of dark hair was the only part of him showing and I smiled, content to let him sleep. I went to the kitchen and got myself some breakfast.

Not ten minutes later, I glanced up and the spoon clattered from my hand as Holmes walked in, rumpled and disheveled but in no pain. He smiled. "Good morning, woman. Do we have waffles?"

"Holmes! What are you doing out of bed?"

"Searching for food. What else would I be doing?"

"But…but you're not healed!"

"Yes he is," Watson said as he entered the room in his jammies as well.

"Surprise," Holmes grinned.

I jumped up and hugged him. "You're fine? Really?"

"I wouldn't say that," Watson put in, "but he is fully recovered."

"Awesome," I beamed. Then my face grew serious. "Holmes, what have we learned from this?"

"That I do not sleep in my bed for a reason," he said.

"I'm serious."

"Big cars are dangerous," Holmes corrected.

"And we should watch out for them."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Where are my waffles?"

Watson was nowhere to be seen. Holmes pushed me away and began yelling.

"Watson! I demand you bring back the waffles!"

For a moment I wished he were back in bed. But just for a moment.

* * *

**It seems like I've read that line somewhere, but I can't recall where. Maybe it's deja vu or something, but just in case, I didn't mean to copy it if you have seen it somewhere. Blame my subconscious. ****And as for the romance 'tween Holmes and I, if it ever does come up, it'll just be occasional fluff, as Holmes isn't an overly affectionate person anyway and I don't want to make it the main focus of the story. And with that, review! :) **


	14. Sherlock Holmes

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, and Gladstone aren't mine. Neither is Irene or the 2009 Sherlock Holmes movie. Except for the copy I have buried under crap in my room. Blame Holmes. **

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. School started and things have been crazy lately. You know how it is. But here it is at last, and may I say...I think most of you are gonna like this... *dark chuckle* And there are some ideas in here suggested by others—I may have thought of it first (great minds think alike and all that) but thank you either way. I love your input so much. C:  
So without further ado...**

* * *

Friday night I returned home from the store to find the house completely dark. I furrowed my brow as I pulled into the garage, immediately starting to worry. Watson was perfectly capable of keeping Holmes in check, but things weren't looking good.

"Boys?" I called as I walked in. "Holmes? Watson?" I set my things on the kitchen table and wandered through the darkened house. "Guys?"

Finally I heard noise coming from the living room. I came in and found them both on the couch, eyes fixed intently on the TV. Gladstone was curled up on the floor near Watson.

With a laugh, I stepped over. "What are you watching?"

"Move, I can't see!"

I turned around, brows raised. "Geez, Watson." I stepped backwards and dropped on the couch between the sleuth and the doctor. "What is this?"

"Me," Holmes replied.

I snorted. "What? How can it—" For the first time, I actually looked at the screen and narrowed my eyes. "_Sherlock Holmes_?"

"Hush, woman! This is my favorite part!"

"You guys are watching _Sherlock Holmes_? I thought I told you not to! I _know_ I told you not to!"

"But it's so good," Watson whispered.

I looked over at him. "You sound like an addict." A disturbing thought came to me. "Wait…your favorite part? And you're an addict?" I sat up straight. "Have you already watched this?"

"Yes," Watson said.

"Twice," added Holmes.

"…I was gone for twenty minutes," I said.

"Woman, we are from the nineteenth century. Time in this house is broken."

With a resigned sigh, I slumped again and just watched the movie.

About halfway through, I had come to the conclusion that this was not healthy for either Holmes or Watson. Holmes's already enormous ego was growing with every scene he was in, and Watson kept uttering the strangest squeak whenever he did something awesome onscreen. Both were acting like the worst of fangirls.

Somehow I had to break the tension.

"You guys, uh…want a drink?" I asked after a moment.

"Root beer," Holmes said automatically.

"I'll get it!"

I leapt up all too eagerly and practically ran to the kitchen. A minute later I came back and handed Holmes a can of root beer. To my dismay, he simply set it aside without even opening it, although Gladstone took the trouble of sniffing the air to make me feel better.

"Holmes," I huffed.

"Shhh."

I sat down between them again and picked up the can of root beer, turning it over once or twice. Shooting a sidelong glance at Holmes, I held the can in front of his face and began shaking it violently.

"Look, Holmes," I whispered. "I'm shaking the root beer. It's gonna explode. Remember the first time?"

"Woman, don't be daft," he said, pushing my hand out of the way.

I glared at him, and then turned to Watson.

"Hey Watson," I murmured. "Did you know that TV rots your brain?"

"So does that device…your computer."

I huffed again. This was getting me nowhere. Then suddenly a light bulb went off over my head. I reached over Watson, who barely noticed, and grabbed the remote. Slyly I placed it next to my leg, sighing and slumping.

"I love this part…so awesome…" I said absently. Neither man seemed to even hear me, so I did it. I pushed pause.

Twelve seconds later, the movie was playing again, I was sitting on the floor—utterly stunned—and the remote had been placed in Holmes's pants for safekeeping.

Meekly I climbed back onto the couch, sitting quietly. However, when Holmes let out a cheer when Irene kissed him in the movie, I decided I still had to intervene.

I was the epitome of casual as I yawned and stretched, and my arm ever—so—slowly made its way around Holmes's shoulders.

He twitched. "Woman, what are you doing?" he whispered.

"Oh, not much."

Holmes didn't seem entirely convinced of my harmlessness, but he said and did nothing.

A few minutes passed and it was time for step two. "Holmes, I'm cold and depressed. Comfort me," I said, grabbing his other arm and pulling it around my waist.

"Woman, stop acting strange," he murmured.

"But I'm _cold_."

He grunted and left his arm there.

My frustration was returning not much later, and on top of that, Holmes was doing too good a job keeping me warm. Now I felt a little like toast. I sighed and reminded myself I just needed to distract him from the movie.

So we kicked it up a notch.

I reached over with my free hand and clasped his, leaning my head against his shoulder. Finally I felt a measurable reaction from him.

"Woman! What on earth is this?"

By now, we had attracted Watson's attention. He regarded us with disapproval and mild annoyance.

"Holmes, I thought we talked about this," he said sternly.

"It isn't me!" Holmes exclaimed. I looked innocent, which was minorly difficult as I was becoming more and more impatient.

Watson frowned. "Well, whatever the pair of you are doing over there, keep it down."

Holmes glared at me and shoved me off. "Don't be childish, woman. Honestly."

That was the last straw. "Childish?" I repeated. "I'll show you childish."

In a fit of anger, I grabbed Holmes's face and kissed him on the mouth.

A few seconds later, I pushed him back and stood up. "And I'm not the one giggling over myself on TV," I snarled. As I strode past the television I turned it off, switching on the lights on my way out.

Holmes was sitting limply on the couch, eyes large and mouth slightly open. "She…she just kissed me. Watson…did you see that?"

Watson was chuckling merrily. "Yes, I did." He stood up as well and ruffled his friend's hair as he passed. "And I think it was just what you needed, old boy."

The sleuth sat up straighter. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

But Watson was already gone. "We shall finish the movie later, Holmes," he called back. "I needed to use the restroom anyway…."

Holmes sat in silence for another minute, then sighed. He needed a drink. Still at a bit of a loss, he picked up the forgotten can of root beer and popped the tab.

It promptly exploded, leaving him covered head to toe in cold foam.

As Holmes stared numbly at nothing, Gladstone picked himself up and waddled out with a canine groan.

Holmes was left sitting in root beer and utter confusion.

* * *

**You know you loved it. And there's that old saying...kisses performed in fits of anger are...really...special...or something...yes, I just made that up, but it's the thought that counts. And no worries for those of you not entirely in favor of a relationship—I'll take extra care not to make it the focus of the story, because I don't want that either. Anywho, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did (mwah, just kidding). R&R!**


	15. Halloween

**Disclaimer: Holmes, Watson, and Gladstone don't belong to me. Yet. **

**A/N: I apologize for the long wait. I've had Future-specific writer's block for...well, a while, until I wised up and checked my list of suggestions from you wonderful people. Thank you, Lady Sally, for suggesting trick-or-treating. Enjoy! **

* * *

There was an awful gagging and spitting sound from the kitchen.

"Holmes, I told you not to eat those," I called.

He came back in, wiping his mouth. "Yes, but you did not say _why_. I wasn't expecting such a slimy orange…ugh." He shuddered.

"Holmes, they were pumpkin guts," I said. "What did you think it would be?"

Watson chuckled and Holmes gave him a look. "Doctor, why don't you put your head in a pumpkin?"

We were carving jack-o-lanterns, and things were getting interesting.

I glanced up. "How's yours coming, Watson?"

He turned the pumpkin around to show a slightly drunk-looking pumpkin face. "It's Holmes."

"I can see that," I giggled.

The sleuth made a face at his friend. "Well look at mine."

I did, and furrowed my brow. "Holmes…that doesn't look like anything. You just cut a bunch of random holes."

"Yes."

"Whatever happened to the face?" Watson asked.

"It got a bunch of random holes cut in it," Holmes replied.

"Pleasant."

I laughed. "So guys, Halloween is coming up, and I was wondering what you two wanted to do."

"What do you mean?" Watson asked.

"Well, you're both a little old to go trick-or-treating, but if you really wanted we could…or we could find a party to go to…or we could just sit around at home and whine." That last was directed at Holmes.

"What is this trick-treating?" he wondered.

"You dress up in costumes, and go ring people's doorbells, and they give you candy," I said. Quickly I added, "It's mostly for kids," but by the gleam in his eye I could tell he was sold.

"Let's do that," Holmes said. "I want candy."

I sighed and smiled. "Watson, what do you say?"

"Watson says yes," Holmes replied as the doctor opened his mouth. "Now, from what you have told me, I am dressed quite outlandishly enough to pass as a 'costume'. Therefore, woman," he said, "let us be off."

"No, Holmes, not until Halloween," I said. Holmes looked devastated. I laughed again. "Holmes, it's not that far away."

"Patience is not his strong suit," Watson reminded me.

"Well there's nothing I can do," I told Holmes. "You'll just have to wait. But in the meantime, we can work on your costume."

Holmes sighed and this time I got the look. "Woman, what could I _possibly_ dress up as that is more impressive than myself?"

My answer was automatic. "Tony Stark."

Holmes shook his head violently. "Absolutely not."

"I don't see what you have against him."

"_I_ don't see why he has to be here," Holmes shot back. "Watson and I are men enough for this household."

"What will he be doing on Hallowe'en?" Watson wondered. Holmes gave him a dirty look.

I shrugged. "I guarantee it'll be full of women." Holmes made a disgusted noise and I smacked his shoulder. "We're supposed to be discussing Halloween costumes, not your vendettas against Tony Stark and women."

"Only some women," he said nonchalantly.

I stuck my tongue out at him. "Watson, _you_ can be Tony."

"I'd rather not."

I flung my hands up. "Not you too! Am _I_ supposed to be Tony?"

"Why does one of us have to be Tony?" Watson asked.

"I don't know…it just seemed easy. I mean, he lives here…sometimes…so we have his stuff…." Now I was receiving the look from both of them and I huffed. "Fine. Tony is out."

"It's about time."

I ignored Holmes. "What would you like to be?"

Now that he was once more the center of attention, Holmes was perfectly amiable. He thought for a minute before replying. "Watson."

Watson raised his hand in protest. "Holmes, I don't think—"

"No, that's perfect!" I exclaimed. "Because then I can be Holmes!"

He turned. "Pardon?"

I beamed at him. "And then Watson can be—"

"You?" the doctor said, brows raised.

"Well—"

"I don't believe Watson will fit into your jeans," Holmes pointed out. "He lacks figure." The doctor nodded in agreement.

"Well okay," I said. "Watson can be Gladstone."

"And Gladstone can be you!" Holmes said brightly.

It was my turn to give him a look, and then I sighed. "Fine."

Watson smiled. "Well this is rather perfect."

* * *

Unfortunately, it wasn't. Halloween morning, the doctor contracted a terrible case of the flu.

"Poor wretch," Holmes remarked that night, as a pale and shaky Watson retreated to his bedroom with a bucket. "Woman, if I catch it, I want root beer. Not that fuzzy citrus water."

"Holmes, Sprite helps your stomach," I said.

He adjusted Watson's hat on his own head for the millionth time. "But root beer helps your soul."

I snorted. "Stop talking. I need to put your moustache on."

Holmes held his mouth as still as possible while I scribbled a John Watson moustache on his upper lip in brown eyeliner.

"Woman, I don't—"

"Holmes, stop moving."

"I'm only—"

"No. Stop."

He frowned and was quiet for five seconds. "But I—"

"Holmes, you're going to need a shave if you don't hold still."

"It's not even real—"

"I don't care, just—"

"Woman! That is not your space!"

"Well if you would hold still, the pencil wouldn't end up in your left nostril!"

Holmes huffed, but his face stopped moving.

"Well," I said at last, "you're done."

"And you still look like yourself," Holmes said. "Go put on my clothing."

I stared at him. The corners of his mouth twitched. I shook my head. "You are so _weird_."

A few minutes later, I returned in one of his shirts, a pair of his trousers, and his long coat. "Your boots are too big, Holmes," I said, tripping already.

"Nonsense," Holmes said. "Those are Watson's."

I looked down. "Oh. Why do you have Watson's boots?"

"Why don't I have Watson's boots?"

I rolled my eyes and went to swap them. "Better?" I asked when I returned.

"Oh. No. _Those_ are Watson's boots."

"Whatever," I huffed. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does," Holmes argued. "I refuse to let you walk around as me with Watson's feet."

And so I changed shoes again. When I finally came back, Holmes took one look at me and furrowed his brow. "Hmm."

"What now?" I said.

"You look altogether dashing, woman, as is to be expected when posing as me, but…your hair is all wrong."

"Yes, Holmes. It's longer than yours. And brown."

He frowned and reached out, and mussed my hair into a terrible tangled mess. "There. Stunning."

"…thanks, Holmes."

"Don't mention it." Holmes bent down and picked up Gladstone, who was wearing one of my shirts. "Come now, fuzzy little woman. Oo, you're rather slobbery. And have you gained weight?"

I rolled my eyes as I finished combing my hair back into place with my fingers and pulled it up. "Okay, Holmes, let's go."

"Watson."

"What?"

"I'm Watson. You're Holmes. And may I remind you that talking to yourself gives you a rather dubious reputation," he said.

"Well whoever you are, come on." I handed Holmes a pillowcase and we headed outside.

"You remember what to do?" I asked him as we walked down the street, Holmes pulling Gladstone in a little wagon behind him.

"We take candy from strangers," Holmes said.

"…uh…yeah. But only on Halloween," I said hastily.

"Naturally," Holmes replied. We turned and headed up a driveway lined with lit jack-o-lanterns. "So I ring the bell."

"Yes."

We reached the door and he did just that. "And then I say—"

The door swung open and man dressed like Dracula answered. "Goood eeveninng."

Holmes yelped and leapt behind me, abandoning Gladstone to fend for himself and his wagon. "Woman! It's the undead!" He sounded so terrified that I felt sorry for him, until he pushed me forward. "Distract it! You're more delicious than I!"

I rolled my eyes again and held out my pillowcase. "Trick or treat."

Dracula dropped a handful of Snickers into my pillowcase and eyed Holmes. "Does he…?"

"No." I shook my head. "Thank you. Have a good night." I pushed Holmes back to the sidewalk, Gladstone nearly rolling away down the gutter.

"I thought you didn't believe in the undead," I said.

"I don't," Holmes said haughtily. "I was merely caught off guard."

"Very off guard." I nudged him. "You want to try another house?"

He nodded and followed me to the next house, pulling Gladstone along behind him.

"I want you to say trick or treat this time," I said as we reached the door. "Go ahead, Holmes. Even if it's Dracula again, they won't bite."

Holmes still had not run out of looks, a fact that he proved to me as he pushed the bell. This time the door was opened by a rather plump woman in a witch's hat. Holmes held out his pillowcase. "Uh…trick or…er…treat?"

"Well aren't you just _precious_!" she exclaimed.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Madam, I—"

But she wasn't even paying attention to Holmes. Rather, she was picking Gladstone up from his wagon and fussing over him like a baby. I put my hand over my mouth and giggled while Holmes looked indignant.

"Treats," he said. "I need them."

She looked up. "Oh, well yes. You're cute as well." The woman set Gladstone down and put a handful of Hershey's Kisses in Holmes's pillowcase, and mine. "Happy Halloween!"

I elbowed Holmes until he thanked her, and then we headed back for the sidewalk. "See, Holmes? That wasn't so hard."

"No. In fact, it was a piece of candy. Actually several. So let's do it again." And with that, he was marching down the street and leaving me to pull Gladstone.

* * *

An hour and a half later, we were trudging home with bulging pillowcases. Or rather, I was trudging home, pulling both Gladstone and Holmes in the wagon.

"This was fun," Holmes said through a mouthful of chocolate. "Let's do it again tomorrow."

"We can't, Holmes."

"Why not?"

"Because," I said. "It's not Halloween tomorrow."

"I fail to see your point. We could go around the neighborhood claiming we confused the date."

"No, Holmes, we have to wait until next year."

Holmes made a disparaging noise. "Well this is a tragedy of unimaginable proportions. I must do something."

"How about you get out and pull me around for a while?" I suggested.

"But Gladstone is allergic to women."

"He's being one."

Holmes lifted Gladstone's ear and whispered, "She just called you a cross-dresser."

* * *

Once home, I opened the garage and pulled the wagon in. Holmes climbed out and Gladstone hopped to the ground, and we stepped inside.

"Watson! We have returned! And the woman has candy to share with you!" Holmes called.

"Holmes!" I said, annoyed.

"Never mind!" Holmes set his pillowcase on the table and began digging through it. "Why must all the pesky wrappers be on the top?"

"Don't make yourself sick," I cautioned him.

"I never get sick. I live with a doctor."

I didn't point out that the doctor in question was ill as well. "Goodnight, Holmes. I'm going to bed."

"Oo, peanut butter."

I snorted and retreated to my bedroom.

* * *

The next morning, I expected to find Holmes passed out in a pile of wrappers on the kitchen floor. To my surprise, he was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing on his palms with markers. "Good morning, woman."

"Good morning, Holmes," I said, surprised. "You look…healthy."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well you were binging on Halloween candy," I said.

Holmes shrugged. "I have trained my digestive system to withstand whatever may come its way. My only regret is that Thanksgiving is still weeks away."

I shook my head and began rethinking my take on Holmes's diet, as well as the fate of the bag of Cheetos that had been in the cupboard for almost a year.

* * *

**I hope you liked it alright. My dear friend and beta reader, disoriented-problem, said it felt OOC to her. I tried to fix that, but I'm not sure how well that worked. x_x Oh, and from my research, in Holmes's time Halloween was written and maybe pronounced as Hallowe'en, so no, it's not a typo. xD Once again, I apologize for the wait. R&R! **

**EDIT: For all those who haven't gotten around to reading this yet, I'd like to say that I'm going on hiatus for a while. Rather than ficcing, I'm going to be editing my original novel. I posted this on my profile, but then I realized that not everyone sees that. x3 So you're just gonna have to be patient. Love you all! **


	16. Christmas

**Disclaimer: None of the characters from Sherlock Holmes are mine. Neither is dear Tony Stark. Or...Santa Claus...but he belongs to the world, after all. And we are the world...we are the children...**

**A/N: Wow! Long time no read, huh? I've been off hiatus for...oh...two or three months now. Not that any of you would know, since I haven't updated here at all. I've had that awful Future-specific block since I came back from hiatus. I wanted to post something for Thanksgiving...and then before Christmas...but none of that happened, obviously. But never mind all my lame excuses, here we are! A shiny new update just for yoooou! And here's the kicker—it features Holmes in the depths of despair. That's right, Holmes is DEPRESSED. There's also some fluff near the end. Enjoy the emotional extremes. ~**

* * *

With a general air of happy, I hauled the last of the bins labeled _X-mas_ up the stairs. "This is it," I said, excited. "All the decorations."

Watson and Holmes were quite unmoved.

"Oh, come on, guys! It's Christmas!" I exclaimed. "You celebrated Christmas back home, didn't you?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable, while Holmes just looked grumpy. "Well…not exactly."

I stared at him. "Yes you did…Christmas has been a holiday since, like…the Dark Ages."

"Well yes," Watson said. "But Holmes…you see…Christmas is a difficult time for him."

I furrowed my brow. "…why?"

Watson opened his mouth to reply, but Holmes cut him off. "December 24, 1855, the day my mother passed away of pneumonia. December 22, 1857, the day my father was killed in a shipping accident. December 26, 1867, the day my brother left me to travel around the world. December 23, 1880, the first case—and last, thus far—where the culprit eluded me. December 25, 1886, the day that the good doctor here began courting _dear_ Ms. Morstan. December—"

"Okay, okay, I got it," I said. "Christmastime is…depressing for you."

"Yes," Holmes said. "Very."

"Well…maybe we can change that," I said. "I mean…you're here with me and Watson, and we're not going to die or…elude you."

Holmes scoffed. "Woman, there is nothing on the face of this earth that could make me enjoy Christmas. Least of all anything you could do."

Arms folded over my chest, I declared, "Well you're just a big scrooge, aren't you."

He rolled his eyes. "No, woman, I am a sleuth."

I shook my head. "Just wait, Holmes. I'm going to change your mind."

Watson spoke up again. "With all due respect…I've been trying to do so for years. What makes you so sure you will succeed?"

"Because this is the twenty-first century," I said. "You two have never seen Christmas like this."

Muttering under his breath, Holmes stood up and stalked out of the room. Watson and I watched him go, then the doctor turned to me with his eyebrows raised. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that you need to go grab your coat, and get Holmes into the car. We're going to get a Christmas tree."

The tree lot smelled wonderful, a blend of fresh pine needles and the crisp, clean aroma of snow. Live evergreens ranging in height from five feet to ten stood in groups just big enough to get lost in. In any other circumstance, I was sure Holmes would be captivated. But it was quite the opposite; as I ran from tree to tree with Watson in tow, the sleuth trudged after us with his face hidden in his scarf. He hadn't said a single word since we had left, communicating only with grunts and growls like a winter-clothed Sasquatch.

"How about this one?" I said, fluffing the branches of one tree. "It seems nice. Holmes, what do you think?"

"Grrmph," he said.

"Hmm. You're right. It's too wide." I hurried to the next one. "What about this tree?"

"I like it," Watson said.

"Me too. Holmes?"

"Urghh."

I folded my arms, mirroring him. "The longer it takes to find a tree, the longer we'll be out here in the cold."

His nose and mouth popped out of the scarf. "Yes. It's perfect. Shove it in the trunk and let us go home."

I shook my head. "I don't think it's right. Let's look around some more."

With a groan, Holmes dragged himself after us.

At last we decided on a tree, and Watson and the owner of the lot tied it onto the roof. I sat in the car with Holmes, who refused to say anything besides telling me to turn up the heat. The drive home was long and the conversation empty. Watson and I soon resorted to commenting on the big fluffy snowflakes drifting down through the headlights. Holmes stared out at them, his forehead against the cold window.

"We'll have to leave the tree here overnight," I said once we pulled into the garage.

Holmes finally spoke. "Why?"

"So it can acclimate," I said, "and get used to the temperature."

"Oh." He turned and went inside.

I shook my head. "Talk about difficult."

In the house, I made us all hot chocolate in very Christmas-y mugs. I then opened up the bins and began flinging decorations at Watson and Holmes. Watson helped put them up without protest, but Holmes refused to do anything but sit and watch, sipping his mug.

"Come on, Holmes," I said. "You can't even help a little bit?"

"No." He stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm exhausted. I shall turn in, if you don't mind."

"I do mind," I called after him, but he ignored me. Once again, I shook my head.

* * *

December fourteenth found all three of us in a nest of silver tinsel. Watson was unpacking ornaments from their little boxes while I fought with a string of lights. Holmes, of course, was doing nothing.

"How on earth do you have so many…baubles?" Watson asked.

I shrugged. "I like trees with a lot of ornaments. What I can't stand are the lights." I flung the strand in the air. "Why is it that only _one_ out of one thousand makes the whole thing not work?"

"Why bother with it?" Holmes said. "Surely a few twinkles aren't worth hours of trial and error."

I glared at him. "It's worth it."

"If you say so." He looked away.

I had never seen him like this. It was a little unsettling. I climbed to my feet and grabbed his hand. "Come on, Holmes, help me wrap the tinsel."

"No."

"Yes. Come on. All you have to do is hold this end." I thrust an armful of the itchy stuff at him and made him follow me in circles around the tree. "See? That wasn't so hard," I said as we finished. He grunted and went back to his spot on the floor.

I huffed and set about putting up the lights by myself.

When Watson and I began hanging up the ornaments, I came over to Holmes and set a few in front of him. "Here."

He looked up at me, expressionless.

"If you would. Please."

Heaving a sigh, Holmes hauled himself to his feet and picked up the decorations. "Where?"

I smiled at him. "Anywhere."

Silently he hung the ornaments on a few branches, then backed away and gazed at the tree as we finished the rest. "Is that all?"

"No." As Watson stood beside him, I bent behind the tree and plugged in the lights. The Christmas tree was suddenly aglow with red, green, blue, yellow, orange, and white. I stepped out from behind it and smiled at the wide-eyed wonder on both Watson and Holmes's faces. "A few twinkles, huh?"

Holmes stepped up to the tree and touched one of the lights with a forefinger. "What…what is this?"

"It's a Christmas light," I said. "We'll put some up outside too. On the roof."

For a minute, I thought I had him. Then he shrugged and turned away. "Electricity and a tree that is slowly dying. Rather unsafe, don't you think?" Without waiting for an answer, he left the room.

I groaned. "Dang it, Watson. I thought I did it for a second there."

Watson shook his head. "You'll have to do better than a few lights."

* * *

The next day I dragged them both to the mall to shop for presents. It too had been decorated for Christmas; glittery snowflakes hung everywhere and an enormous tree had grown out of nowhere in the middle of the ground floor. I gave Holmes a sidelong glance as we entered the mall, but any trace of amazement was gone in an instant. I sighed under my breath and began issuing orders.

"Okay," I said, handing each a wad of cash. "You both need presents, and so do I. Then there's Gladstone, and Lauren, and Tony, and…I think that's everyone. No buying presents for yourself and don't let anyone know what you got them. Alright?"

Watson nodded and Holmes mumbled. I heaved another sigh.

"Try not to make a scene. We'll meet here, at the big Christmas tree, in an hour and a half."

With that, I let them go off alone. Ordinarily, I would never _ever_ let Holmes loose in any public place. But with his recent case of the doldrums, I figured he was too low to pull pranks. This was both reassuring and very disturbing.

I mall-crawled for the full ninety minutes, and then some. I was the last one back to the tree.

"You're late," Holmes said.

"Only by a few minutes." I looked around. "You want to get a picture with Santa?" A red-suited, white-bearded man was sitting near the tree with a line of kids and their parents stretching clear to the escalators.

Holmes gave me a disgusted look. "Absolutely not."

"Well, it was worth a try." I led them back outside and through the parking lot, where the snow flurries from last night had grown into a good-sized storm. The ride home was, once again, awkward and quiet.

As we came back into the house, I immediately set off down the hall. "Where are you going?" Holmes called.

"I have to wrap you guys's presents and hide them somewhere."

Holmes scoffed at this. "I'll find them."

"You better not," I shouted back.

However, that night, I retired to my room to find the packages neatly stacked on my mattress instead of under my bed, where I had left them. I snarled and hauled them off. The next morning I put them in the garage; that afternoon I found them on my bed again.

It continued like this for the next week until Christmas. I put them in the freezer, in the washing machine, in the attic, the car, the bathroom cupboard, the piano. Every time, they ended up on my bed again. I knew he was just doing it out of spite for the Christmas season, not for me, but by the time Christmas Eve rolled around I was ready to throttle him.

"These stay here, Holmes," I said as I shoved the presents beneath the tree. "Don't touch them. Don't even look at them. Not until tomorrow morning."

"Okay," he shrugged, and turned the volume up on the TV.

I furrowed my brow and stared at the blank expression on his face. He looked terrible, even more so than usual. I knew for a fact he hadn't eaten in a few days, and I suspected he hadn't slept for longer than that. Nothing that either Watson or I did could change his mind.

"Can you blame him for it?" the doctor had said. "Everyone he's ever cared for has left him, in some way, at Christmastime."

Hesitant, I opened my mouth to say something, but as though he knew what I was about to do—which he probably did—he switched off the TV and stood up and left the room.

* * *

That night, I came to my room prepared to find the presents occupying my bed again. Instead, there was only one small, crudely wrapped parcel sitting on my pillow. Puzzled, I sat on my bed and picked it up, giving it a small shake. I paused for a moment, considering, and then tore off the wrapping paper to find a miniscule pair of rabbits, carved out of wood and meticulously attached to a short keychain. It wasn't from Watson, and certainly not from Tony.

Clutching it in my fingers, I rose and made my way down the hall to Holmes's room. Light shone from beneath the door, so I took the liberty of knocking. "Holmes…hey, Holmes."

The door swung open and there he stood, looking even more rumpled than usual. "Oh…woman. I…why aren't you in bed?"

"Well I was getting there, but I found a present on my pillow." I held up the keychain. "Did you make this, Holmes?"

Some sort of emotion flashed through his eyes, but he just shrugged. "I did."

"Well…why did you give it to me tonight? Why not wait until tomorrow morning?" I peered past him into his room and, to my surprise, found the room almost bare save a suitcase lying open on the floor. I stared up at him in confusion. "Holmes…are you leaving?"

He sighed. "I decided to make the first move this time."

I shook my head. "Holmes, you can't leave."

"Why not?"

"You don't have anywhere to go. You can't possibly go off on your own—for heaven's sakes, Holmes, you're from the nineteenth century!"

"I've been here for months, woman. I think I can hold my own against this world."

"Well I don't. And I've lived here much longer than you." My voice took on a pleading quality. "Holmes, please…you can't leave. What about Watson?"

"Watson will recover."

"What about me?"

He was silent for a moment. "You will recover as well."

I shook my head again. "I really don't think that's possible."

Holmes sighed. "Why could you not just go to sleep?"

"Because you gave me a present." I looked down at it. "Why are they rabbits, anyway?"

"Because of your constant complaints about the…plot bunnies. I confess I'm not certain as to what a plot bunny is, but given the name, I chose to—"

I threw my arms around him. "Holmes, you _can't_ leave!" I whimpered. "Who's going to drink all my root beer? And wreck my stuff? And ask ridiculous questions and destroy my social life and give me nightmares about bailing you out of jail?"

"Goodness, woman…I had no idea I did so much for you," Holmes murmured, reluctantly returning the hug.

With a numb sort of surprise, I realized that my eyes were prickling with tears. "Please, Holmes, don't go."

There was a moment of silence before Holmes heaved another long sigh. "I'm afraid you shall just have to accept the inevitable."

Some quality in his voice made me raise my head, brows furrowed. "Which is…?"

"That you shall have to bear the burden of housing a genius for quite some time." I stared at him and he rolled his eyes. "Would you like me to put it simply for you? I have decided to remain—great Scott, woman, I cannot breathe!"

"Oh, Holmes, thank you for listening this one time," I squeaked. "It wouldn't be the same without you, I wouldn't—"

He scoffed. "You don't honestly think my decision was influenced by any of the…nonsensical fluff you said, do you?"

"I do, but I'll play along just because it's Christmas."

The door across the hall swung open without warning and a disheveled Watson emerged, wearing striped pajamas and rubbing his eyes. "What on earth is—"

Holmes waved him away. "We are sharing a moment, Watson, and you are ruining it."

Watson looked a little lost, but he mumbled something along the lines of "Oh right" and retreated back into his room.

"I think we woke him up," I said.

"Nonsense. Without a doubt he has been waiting up for Saint Nicholas."

Rather than sleep, I helped Holmes put all his belongings back in their places. There were a few things—a newspaper from last July, a suspicious goo that gave my palms little red spots, what seemed to be the remnants of my mascara brush—that I tried to get rid of without him noticing, but every time he managed to retrieve it from the trash, shaking his head at me and clucking his tongue. By the time his room had been restored to its state of casual disaster, the clock in the living room was chiming seven in the morning.

I yawned and picked myself up from a pile of socks. "Let's get Watson and see if Tony made it home in one piece."

"And then we open presents?" Holmes inquired.

"No, I think we should wait."

He looked shocked. "Whatever for?"

"That was sarcasm."

"I swear, at times you and Watson could be twins."

I paused. "Fraternal, I hope."

"Most of the time." Holmes climbed to his feet and fixed his suspenders, which were no longer on his shoulders and therefore doing nothing. "Well. Let us be off to see what dear Kris Kringle has left for us."

I wasn't sure what to say to that. "Uhh…Holmes, you do know that—"

"You don't really think that I believe in an obese man who manages to fit in chimneys."

"Actually, I thought you'd be more hung up on the flying reindeer."

"Those are utterly impossible and therefore bear no merit for consideration."

"Well, I can't argue with that." I could hear Watson trying to convince Gladstone not to rip open his bag of treats in the living room; we were evidently the last to arrive. "Hey Holmes…would it be too much to ask for you to be really, really happy about everything today? Watson's been very worried."

"No, I think that can be arranged." He sounded indifferent, but I got a sudden sinking feeling inside.

We walked into the living room, where Watson in his stripes and Tony in his muscle shirt were waiting, with the tree lit and the presents wrapped beneath it—aside from the one half-opened by Gladstone. Even Lauren was there in her yoga pants.

At the sight of the presents, Holmes let out the biggest gasp I had ever heard. His eyes went so wide that I was fully prepared to catch them when they fell out of his head and his jaw dropped almost literally to the floor.

"_Watson! Gladstone! Lauren! Woman! It's CHRISTMAS!_"

I went temporarily deaf and couldn't hear Tony's complaints about being ignored, and about being poked repeatedly in the head by Lauren. Holmes performed an incredible flying leap into the floor, missing the presents by mere inches. Gladstone gained an extra pound or two from all the wrapping paper that ended up taped to his fur in Holmes's frenzy of opening presents, most not belonging to him. Watson was satisfied with the sleuth's restored happiness, and then some. Even the tree got into the action; it was 'accidentally' shoved over into Tony's lap in Holmes's attempts to get at the last present.

All in all, it wasn't a bad holiday.

* * *

**So Merry Christmas to all of you! Who doesn't love a few late presents? Oh, and I would very much like to thank those who responded to my begging and pleading and sent me many of these brilliant Christmasy ideas that I was too stressed out to think of myself. You guys are so great and you definitely got me out of a rut. Wishing everyone the best and a happy New Year! **


	17. Airplane

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, Watson, or Gladstone. Or an airline. We'll save that for Saito. Inception reference, what are you doing here. Go home. **

**A/N: MY DEARS HOW I HAVE MISSED YOU. THIS IS MY FIRST UPDATE SINCE DECEMBER OF LAST YEAR. AND THAT IS REALLY, REALLY SAD. I'm so very sorry. You should all file seperate claims for neglect. Poor Holmes has been holed up in a drawer, gathering dust...and probably eating it. But I missed him so much and I missed all your lovely comments and finally I decided to get off my lazy butt and do something about it. So this will be an adventure of epic proportions, just for you. I'm thinking two or three chapters, of which this is the first. **

**Please, do enjoy. You very much deserve it. **

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Since Holmes, Watson, and Gladstone had nudged their way into my life, I had made very few stupid decisions. For example, I had never brought a friend home. I had never left the keys in the ignition. I had never run down the street practicing scream therapy, although that had been tempting many times. I had successfully foolproofed my brain. Any ideas that were even remotely dangerous, idiotic, or asinine had been promptly filed away for future use when Holmes was not in the immediate area. And it had been successful. No one had died. I hadn't been sued yet. And we had managed to keep the number of hospital trips down to one. Quite frankly, I was proud of this safe streak.

But all good things must come to an end. And as we neared the airport, I couldn't help but worry that this would be a failed-engine-oxygen-mask-floating-seat-cushion-disaster kind of end.

"Woman!" Holmes exclaimed, pressing his face to the window of the car. "It's _another_ airplane! Right over there! Look at it!"

"Holmes, I'm driving," I said for the ten thousandth time. "And it's not like you haven't seen forty-seven planes already."

"Forty-eight," Watson corrected. At his tone, I glanced back in the rearview mirror. He was pale beneath his moustache, looking somewhat nauseous as he watched his friend bouncing in his seat over the prospect of riding in one of those aforementioned airplanes.

"Are you okay, Watson?" I asked.

"Fine," he said dully. "Just entertaining the notion that perhaps man was never meant to fly and that any attempt to do so would be entirely too ludicrous, even for us."

"Watson, you're a twit," Holmes said. "The science is perfectly logical. I don't know why I hadn't thought of it myself."

"I thank the heavens you hadn't thought of it yourself," Watson muttered.

"Relax, Watson," I said. "I promise nothing bad will happen." I caught him staring at me in disbelief. My gaze wandered hesitantly to Holmes. "Well…I highly doubt that anything…_really _bad will happen."

"I should very much like to take the helm in one of those machines," Holmes remarked, still watching the airplane as it lazily swerved in for a landing.

The doctor buried his face in his hands. "We are doomed."

For months, the household had been in a rut, and my solution was a vacation. We had settled upon London for obvious reasons. But now, as the image of Holmes finding his way into the cockpit hovered before my eyes, I was starting to wonder if being painfully bored was perfectly bearable, considering the alternative.

In a matter of minutes, we had parked the car and claimed our tickets and I was herding them both towards security. I had persuaded them to sink to wearing jeans, but with Holmes announcing every sight he saw, his accent was attracting just as much attention as his trousers would have. I pulled them along through the crowd at a brisk walk, until finally we reached the never-ending security line.

Before we left, I had checked, double-checked, and triple-checked Holmes's luggage to ensure that he hadn't smuggled in something sharp or explosive or illegal. To my suspicion, I hadn't found a thing. Now, faced with metal detectors and the general public, I couldn't keep from casting frequent uneasy glances in his direction.

"Woman, stop giving me strange looks," he said at last. "Nobody is enjoying them."

We formed a three-man assembly line and began loading the suitcases onto the conveyor belt. I was anxious. "Holmes…be honest with me. Did you pack anything…unstable?"

"Unstable? Good heavens, no."

"…pointy?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Poisonous?"

"No."

"Living?"

"No."

"Intoxicating?"

"In what way?"

I looked alarmed and he chuckled. "I am only jesting, woman. I assure you, I have behaved to the letter."

I breathed a sigh of relief and began pulling off my shoes for the metal detector. Holmes bent down next to me and added, "You will not find anything in _my_ suitcases."

My heart skipped a beat. "…what? What about—"

Just then, the machine burst into a shrieking, blinking, flashing mess. I stared at the suitcase they were tentatively pulling from the conveyor belt—not Holmes's, but Watson's.

"No, you didn't," I moaned as they unzipped the bag.

"Of course I didn't," Holmes replied calmly. "That is Watson's luggage, not mine."

With growing horror, I watched the officer dig through Watson's suitcase. The doctor was being subjected to a TSA pat down while Gladstone, locked securely in his carrier, whimpered in fear of the noise and lights. I was entirely too stunned to speak, while Holmes stood by shaking his head.

"Dear Watson. Who would have suspected?"

I glared at him with what I hoped was paralyzing fury. "I can't believe you, Holmes."

"What did I do?"

"You stuck all of your stupid illegal _stuff_ in Watson's suitcase, that's what you did! He could be arrested! This is going to turn into a huge legal issue which could be a problem since neither of you have birth certificates or social security cards or driver's licenses or legal proof that you even _exist_!" I hissed.

"I'm quite certain that you are overreacting," Holmes said.

"You're both going to get deported to some island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and I'm going to end up in federal prison!"

"Really, woman, you are making a mountain out of a molehill."

"And your accents! You're both obviously English, so this will turn into an _international_ scandal! You are in so much trouble, Holmes—I'm going to kill you. I am going to _kill_ you!"

"Unless I am mistaken, that would indeed land you in federal prison," he said. With a kind smile, he pulled me into a hug and patted my back. "Breathe slowly in and out, woman. Try to relax. This stress is unhealthy."

"Don't hug me!" I snarled, shoving him away. "Don't even start with me, Holmes! You really don't understand—"

"Here!" the security officer shouted. He pulled out a small black bag: Watson's medical case. I hadn't realized that he had brought it, but it was the perfect place for Holmes to put something. I shot him a murderous glare, to which he replied with an infuriatingly mellow smile.

The security man dumped the contents of the bag and I chewed my lip, expecting to see vials of vile substances, antique pistols, weapons of mass destruction. But the eager surrounding crowd was disappointed; the only things that came out of the bag were Watson's standard medical tools. I furrowed my brow and turned to Holmes, who shrugged in an I-told-you-so way that only made me want to kill him more, albeit with a bit more remorse.

It took us ten minutes to convince the security team that Watson was indeed a doctor, five minutes to finish the journey through security—I didn't breathe much when Holmes went through—and a long time to bid Gladstone a tearful farewell, because he would be riding in the baggage compartment. By the time I convinced Holmes that no, they were not going to kidnap the bulldog and turn him into soup, we had ten more minutes to sprint across the airport to our terminal, just in time to board the plane.

All through the flight attendant's orientation, I expected Holmes to rise and make a formal announcement that he was right and I was wrong. At the very least I expected a victory dance. But he remained strikingly silent. I risked glancing over at him, and to my surprise, there wasn't even a smirk on his face. In fact, he looked sort of sick.

I frowned. "Holmes, are you okay?"

He grimaced. "Fine, woman. Pay me no mind."

The sudden disappearance of the enthusiasm he had expressed in the car was plenty of cause for concern. "What's wrong?" He shook his head. I was worried enough to concede an apology. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, Holmes. But given your reputation for completely ignoring me and your fondness for all things hazardous…."

"Oh, woman, it's no fault of yours," he said. His gaze wandered from me to the cabin of the plane, around at the windows and the other passengers. I watched him swallow and in quite a Holmes-y fashion, I noticed his pale complexion, the sweat on his brow, and the grip he had on the armrest between us. And then it dawned on me.

I leaned in closer and whispered so Watson wouldn't hear. "Holmes, are you scared?"

"What?" he said loudly. "That's preposterous, woman. Have you gone daft?"

"Holmes."

"You must have…frogs in your…brain."

"Holmes."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "…perhaps I have lost some small measure of confidence in your modern engineering."

I smiled. "I promise we'll be fine. I've flown on an airplane at least a dozen times."

"Then this would be your thirteenth ride, yes? And thirteen is generally considered by the masses to be an unlucky number."

I rolled my eyes. "Not _exactly_ a dozen times."

"Then you are lying to me and I must disregard all previous statements that have slid from your slippery mouth."

"My mouth is not slippery," I protested, wrinkling my nose. "You're missing the point."

At that moment, the plane's engines whirred and the monstrous machine lurched forward. Holmes sank his fingers into my arm like a cat's claws and a second later, my other arm was being yanked across the aisle by Watson. "Guys!" I hissed, being torn in half. "Guys, relax! It's okay!"

"Woman, you have consigned us to our doom and I assure you, I shall never speak to you again!"

"If only _someone_ had _listened_ to the doctor! The number of problems in this world that could be solved simply by listening to the doctor!"

"Poor Gladstone—he shall be orphaned. They shall lock him up and feed him the key! I told you they would make him into soup, woman! I told you!"

People were staring. I was so tired of people staring. I jerked my arms out of their grasp and sent them each a personalized glare. "Shhh. Be _quiet_. I promise we'll be fine. We haven't even left the ground yet, look." I pointed out the small airplane window.

Holmes grabbed the plastic curtain and slammed it shut. "No. I refuse. I demand to be let out of this plane."

"Holmes. Watson. Listen to me." I didn't give them much of a choice, pulling Holmes in close and tugging Watson across the aisle. "Nothing is going to happen. We are not going to die. We are going to fly safely to London, where we will get Gladstone back, and then enjoy several days full of mind-blowing paradoxes. And in the meantime, you two are going to be quiet and behave yourselves. Okay?"

"Not okay," Holmes said.

"I must agree," Watson nodded.

I rubbed my forehead. "Guys..."

The pilot chose that moment to accelerate down the runway. In an instant, my arms were being repossessed again. Watson covered his eyes with my hand, while Holmes reconnected with his long-forgotten religious side and began praying desperately. I heaved a sigh and mentally kicked myself for ever thinking that this would _not_ end in disaster.

"I confess I shall miss you, doctor," Holmes said, eyes squeezed shut.

"And I you, Holmes."

"Though my highly developed brain shall rot into dust, I shall think of you often."

"Of course."

I hung my head. Their bidding each other farewell in their awkward, indirect, too-manly-to-say-I-love-you way was too much. With a final sigh of defeat, I gave up all hope of restoring order to the situation. As the plane lifted into the sky, and Holmes began shrieking like a banshee, I absently wondered if I would ever, ever learn.

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**The answer to that question is no, because that would not be fun. I promise, _promise_ to have another chapter up within a week. Hold me to it. One week. I really hope you enjoyed this one. And as you welcome me and Holmes back with open arms and many reviews wink wink, I would appreciate any suggestions for scenarios you would like to see. I plan on writing a few chapters where we're actually in London-that should be fun. **

**Again, I apologize for the six-month delay (gah that's awful) and I appreciate your undying love and support. HOLMES WILL GIVE YOU ALL KISSES. MAYBE. **


	18. Airplane 2

**Disclaimer: Holmes and Watson aren't mine and neither is the iPod (duh). If I say that they are, the sky police will come for me. **

**A/N: Alright. So we've established that as far as posting by deadlines go, I have the integrity of a fruit fly. Hopefully this chapter is worth the extra...nine days. Ouch. I'm not so sure how I feel about this one...it started out nice and then things got weird. But I've heard from my wunnerful beta reader, disoriented-problem, that it's a lovely chapter so here you are. My ability to write in first person is improving woo. **

**ENJOY AND BE SAD. BECAUSE IT IS SAD. FOR REALS. **

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Once the plane leveled out in the air, both Holmes and Watson got a hold of themselves, and the blatant stares we were receiving diminished to discreet sidelong glances. I took pity on Watson and let him immerse himself in the contents of my iPod—that awful whining ear-bruiser, as he affectionately called it. Anything to distract him from the way we were shooting through the sky at seven hundred and fifty miles an hour.

Holmes was more difficult to entertain. While I tried hard to read my book, he tried hard to distract me by slamming the tray table up and down. I was doing my very best to ignore him, but when the prune-like old lady sitting in front of him set down her knitting magazine to turn around and glare, I figured I should step in.

I grabbed his wrist. "Holmes. Stop."

"Why."

"Because you're disturbing the peace." I offered an apologetic smile to the woman. She harrumphed.

"'Disturbing the peace'?" Holmes repeated.

"Yes. You could be arrested for that."

"Woman, we are thousands of feet in the air. You cannot hope to convince me that there are policemen in the sky."

"For you, I'm sure there are," I said.

Holmes scoffed. "Tell your sky police to do their worst. I will evade them every time."

I scanned the page for the sentence I had left off on. "I'm sure you will."

Holmes sank low in his chair, a pout on his stubble-ridden face. He was a master at sulking. "I will spring from my seat like a bullfrog."

"I hope that comes with sound effects."

"Then I will sprint up that aisle and burst into the henhouse."

"Cockpit."

"Don't interrupt, woman." He sat up straight, wholeheartedly engaged in this fabricated escape plan. "Following my grand entrance, I shall take control of this craft and veer sharply to the left." He began pantomiming, much to my distress. "Then right. Then left again. Then straight up in a vertical bid for freedom!"

I was growing concerned. "Holmes—"

"Then I perform an aerial miracle, the likes of which have never been seen in this era! And we begin hurtling down towards the earth at an approximate speed of seven thousand kilometers per hour! And just as they close in, I shall shatter the windshield with my bare hands and dive into open space, where the—"

"No," I said quickly. "No. There will be no hurtling. And no breaking windows of any kind."

"But woman—"

"No. Take that whole idea and never think of it again."

"But—"

"Forget it!"

Holmes huffed. "Fine."

The old woman turned in her chair again, burning holes in my face through her delicate little spectacles. "I cannot read. You are being too loud."

"I'm sorry," I said. "We'll quiet down. Right, Holmes?"

He looked pointedly away from me. "I don't listen to dream killers."

I rolled my eyes. "Just sit still," I said, knowing full well that was a physical impossibility for him.

I settled back into my seat and tried to get comfortable, but my eyes were glued to a single sentence as I listened to the _click…click_ and _whoosh_ of Holmes messing with the reading lights and air conditioning above his head. After a minute I looked up, just in time to see his hand hovering near the button to call the flight attendant. He caught me watching him and immediately drew his hand away, a guilty expression on his face.

"You didn't push that, did you?" I asked flatly. He responded with a sheepish red-handed grin and I groaned. "Holmes, we don't need—"

"Can I help you?"

I looked up at the beaming blonde flight attendant and grimaced. Holmes, however, leaned straight over me. "Yes, madam, I have a request. I would like to know the chances of surviving if one were to execute a flawless dive headfirst from the cockpit of this vessel."

Her sparkling smile faltered. For some reason, she seemed confused and somewhat alarmed by his request. "Diving from the cockpit…is not…permitted, sir."

Holmes sighed. "Why are the people of this century so concerned with _safety_?" He shook his head in disdain. "I suppose I will settle for a liquid refreshment. Unless those are not permitted either."

The flight attendant looked relieved to be given a request she could handle. "The drink cart should be by in two minutes." With a nervous sort of grin, she sidled back up the aisle.

I turned and narrowed my eyes at Holmes. "You'll probably be accused of terrorism once we land."

"I had no idea there was a drink cart," he said as though he hadn't heard me. "How convenient."

Mrs. Knitting Magazine looked over her shoulder and _tsked_, muttering something about this hopeless generation. Holmes narrowed his eyes.

"If you behave, you can have some root beer," I said, hoping that would satisfy him for a minute.

It worked like a charm. Holmes quietly drew on the flight magazine until the cart rolled by right on schedule. I passed him a plastic cup full of root beer and ice along with a little bag of pretzels.

"Delightful," he remarked. "They are much more accommodating then you, woman."

"Just eat your pretzels." I left him to munching and leaned across the aisle to check on the doctor. "Watson? Hey, Watson." I tapped him on the arm and he removed his earphones. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," he mumbled.

"You really just need to relax," I said. "We've still got three hours. And then we have to get off and switch planes. And then we fly for seven more hours. Watson, you look sick."

He sighed, a little green around the moustache. "I assure you, I am fine."

"You didn't want anything to dri—"

"No. No thank you. I did not want to bother with it." The doctor's gaze drifted to some point behind my head. "Holmes, on the other hand, is asking for trouble."

I turned around and let out a yelp. Holmes had finished his root beer and was left with a cup of ice—a cup which was being tipped gently over the top of the seat in front of him, on a direct path down the back of Mrs. Knitting Magazine's flowery dress.

Even as I reached for his wrist, I knew it was too little, too late. And in some ways, I wondered if maybe I should be grateful that he was getting this grudge out of his system now. I knew that the more I attempted to stop him, the bigger the scene he would cause. Frankly, I should be glad that this was just a little bit of frozen water. Ice cubes never hurt anyone, right?

Wrong.

The way that woman screamed, you would've thought someone had just unraveled her mittens. She shot from her seat and into the aisle like a firework on steroids, diving over the shocked and appalled oriental man seated beside her in the process. The entire plane turned to watch as she jumped and twisted around like a woman half her age, shrieking like a banshee. The flight attendants scrambled over each other in their rush to be the first to offer a complimentary drink and a discount on her next flight.

I hid my face in my hands and moaned. This was by far the most humiliating thing that had ever happened and I was fully prepared to cry. My lower lip was physically trembling with the sheer horror of this whole situation.

"Woman? Whatever is the matter?"

My head snapped up. "What's the _matter_? Do you not see what you just did?"

Holmes frowned. "I played a practical joke, woman, that is all. You cannot pretend that she didn't bother you as well."

"That doesn't mean you can publicly humiliate her!" I exclaimed. "This isn't your society, Holmes! You aren't the world's greatest living detective here, you're a maniac who doesn't know when to stop! You can't just _do_ stuff like that! There are consequences!"

He furrowed his brow. "I never meant—"

"This is way over the line, Holmes! How are you supposed to fix this one?"

"I don't—"

"Just once, can't you _think_ before you make a fool of yourself?"

I had never seen him at a loss for words until now. He stared at me, stunned, but I looked away. I was done.

"Sir, you're going to have to come with me." One of the flight attendants beckoned to Holmes. He rose from his seat and squeezed past me without complaint, and the flight attendant led him up to the front of the plane. The other passengers retreated back into their novels and card games, and Holmes's poor victim was taken to the front of the plane by another attendant.

I glanced across the aisle at Watson, who quickly looked away—but not before I caught the disapproval in his face. My anger flared up at him. "What? What would you have done?" I demanded.

"Not that," he murmured.

Smoldering, I grabbed the in-flight magazine and flung it open to a random page. Holmes had filled the margins with doodles and coded messages. I frowned and looked up, trying to see his unruly mess of hair over the top of the seats without success. I could only imagine the tongue lashing he was getting…but then again, it couldn't be worse than the one he'd just received from me. But he had deserved it. Hadn't he?

I sighed, too stubborn to consider the possibility that I had overreacted. I picked up a pen and set about cracking his code.

It was uncomfortably quiet.

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**So what do you think? Was I too hard on the dear detective, or did he have it coming? Please, share your opinions. And keep an eye out for the resolution because obviously, this is going to be a three-part thing. Lol. **

**I'm going to be on a real live plane myself tomorrow morning-my family and I are taking an eight-day trip around the eastern half of the US-and I should have plenty of time to write. So when I get back, I hope to have updates galore. We'll see how that goes. AND I'M IN NYC ON MY BURFDAY YEAH. Okay I'm done. R&R! **


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